


House of Fire

by Duckyboos



Series: Bitch Better Have My Money [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Parents, Anal Sex, BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), BAMF Dean Winchester, Barebacking, Bisexual Disaster Dean Winchester, Bottom Dean Winchester, Comeplay, Crime Boss Castiel (Supernatural), Criminal Castiel (Supernatural), Criminal Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester Wears Panties, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Established Relationship, Gangsters, Gun Violence, Hand Jobs, Kid Fic, M/M, Murder Husbands, Oral Sex, Organized Crime, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Partners in Crime, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sex, Rimming, Rope Bondage, Snark, Tattooed Castiel (Supernatural), Top Castiel (Supernatural), Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Wedding Fluff, Wedding Planning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:40:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 90,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24723934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duckyboos/pseuds/Duckyboos
Summary: Dean and Cas have everything they wanted and worked (read: killed) hard for. Unfortunately, there are plenty of people on both sides of the law who want what they have, and will stop at nothing to take it from them or take them down.Still, it’s nothing they can’t handle with a little finesse and sarcasm.Now if only they could agree on a color scheme for the wedding.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Bitch Better Have My Money [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1690696
Comments: 709
Kudos: 610





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I meant to post this last Sunday, but I had the week from hell. Apologies for the delay. 
> 
> Also, thank you for all the comments on Hold the Line - I’ll get around to responding to them asap. 
> 
> With regard to the title of this fic, I’m sure you’ve all noticed that this wasn’t one of the options I was previously considering. I spent a while thinking about the overall tone of these fics and realized that neither of those titles quite matched the level of goofy/smutty that I generally aim for. So instead, I had a think and decided to go with the godfather of shock rock (something I feel this verse’s Dean would appreciate). Thank you for all your answers - for a while there, Billie Eilish won out. Ultimately though, 80s cheese will always be the real winner.

There are few things in Dean’s life that are predictable. He’s not gonna say that it’s complete and utter pandemonium, but it is perhaps best described as organized chaos.

Cas is the organized bit, Dean himself is the chaos. Or so Cas would have you believe, but before he came along, Dean was managing quite well, thank you very much (aside from the grocery store robbery, the failed marriage, the whole getting-his-young-girlfriend-pregnant thing… so yeah, maybe Dean’s the fucking chaos, alright). 

From one day to the next, Dean’s never quite sure where the upcoming hour is gonna lead him. And it’s kinda _fun_. For someone who spent the entirety of his twenties painfully safe and bored shitless in middle-class suburbia, Dean’s relishing the freedom that being with Cas affords him. 

If they’re not setting fires, they’re putting them out, and it’s a hell of a lot more appealing than pretending to be interested in Mr. Williams’ petunias or whatever flower he’s perpetually killing through too much over-watering or serenading with the wrong song. 

Really. Apparently fuchsias are partial to classic rock, petunias not so much.

So yeah. Each day is like a mixed grab bag of Halloween candy and Dean just has to hope that his doesn’t contain any Necco Wafers. 

_Ugh._

However, one thing that can always be relied upon in Dean’s (organized) clusterfuck of a life is Lisa’s buckle cake. She makes it for every single bake sale - without fail - and what with this being the first one of the new school year (fuck, Ben’s very nearly a _teenager_ ) she’s made an extra wonderful example of the species. 

_Species?_

That’s what types of cake are, right? Species? _Breed?_

Linnaeus probably didn’t have much to say about the taxonomy of baked goods.

There’s all the usual fare here too; Pinterest-perfect red velvets, buttercream pound cakes, sponges with billows of multi-colored frosting. And really? Who makes all this shit?

_People with too much time on their damn hands, that’s who._

Still - and Dean’s open to the possibility that he might be biased here - there’s something to be said for the understated, yet perfect pecan pie, sitting further down on the trestle table, next to what looks like an attempt at a chocolate hedgehog(?) 

Behind Dean, there’s a couple of pearl-clutchers discussing the awful business of the city-wide arson from last month, and _how have they have not found them yet, what is that police chief doing--_

Dean could answer that for them, but he’s supposed to be on his best behavior - Cas’ orders - so he just stares at the hedgehog-cum-Clive-Barker-fever-dream-slash-nightmare, kind of relieved that there might actually be a parent at this school who’s a worse baker than him.

He glances down at his cell, afraid that if he keeps looking into those angry white-chocolate-button eyes, they’ll steal his soul, or tear it apart, and he’s not ready to go to hell yet. He’s got a wedding to plan and a council meeting to attend. 

The clock on his phone informs him that it’s 11:56 and Cas was supposed to have been here eleven minutes ago. 

Just as he’s thinking about shooting off a text reminding his fiancé - yep, that’ll never get old - that this stupid fucking bake sale was his idea, a body appears in the space next to him, and Dean’s almost hit with a strong sense of deja vu, before he realizes that said body doesn’t smell half as good as the one he’s grown intimate with over the past year.

“Hey.”

Dean shoves his cell back in his pocket, turns to face the guy fully. He’s handsome, no doubt; tall with blond hair and blue eyes, and before Cas, yeah he probably would have.

Problem is, it’s _not_ before Cas and this guy is barrelling on like Dean’s given him an in, “You looked lonely standing here all by yourself, so I thought I’d come over and keep you company.”

Still. Dean can be polite, but just as he opens his mouth to say, _‘Hi, that’s nice, but I’m not interested,’_ the guy interrupts, clearly a bit nervous and not used to hitting on random men at bake sales. “I’m kinda new around here and you look like someone worth knowing, so would you be interested in showing me around? We could get a cup of coffee, maybe? But obviously, you’d have to recommend me somewhere, because of the whole being ‘new’ thing…”

_O-kay._

“Err,” Dean hedges, awkward in the face of the stranger’s verbal diarrhea and hopeful smile, “Maybe you should speak to one of the teachers, I’m sure they’d be--”

An arm snakes around Dean’s waist, hand coming to rest on the wing of his hip, casually possessive, “I’ll get coffee with you--” Cas offers, all thinly veiled threat, misplaced jealousy, and cologne that makes Dean’s dick twitch, “--Show you the sights, give you the full tour.”

Cas’ ‘full tour’ is probably less Museum of Art and Clinton park and more his body dumping ground in the wetlands and gun range behind the warehouse, but still. 

_The wetlands_ **_are_ ** _beautiful though._

New guy has been stunned into mystified silence, and Cas is just letting his threat hang in the air like the asshole he is - this is why they have _zero_ friends - and the guy was only being friendly, right? Sure, he might’ve been barking up the wrong tree with his pick up line, but it was an innocent mistake.

Dean can be nice. It has been known to happen.

“Um, this is my-- Cas. Cas this is...” He waits for the guy to fill in the blank.

“Oh!” The guy says, eyes wide as he stares at the place where Cas’ palm is practically a brand through Dean’s clothes, “I’m Nick.” To Cas he adds, “I’m really sorry, I didn’t realize.”

Uh-huh. 

Apologizing to Cas for daring to speak his _possession_? Is that what’s happening here? Like Dean’s a chick at a bar whose no doesn’t mean no until her boyfriend shows up?

Yeah, Dean’s not having it.

“No need to apologize,” Dean dredges up his flirtiest smile, turns it right up to eleven, “I can still show you around if you want. I know a really nice coffee and bakehouse near the university.”

Cas’ grip tightens.

Nick looks between them, must see that Cas is one exchange shy of putting on some kind of R-rated display to make him back the fuck off, and so Nick does precisely that.

“No, that’s okay,” He flashes a quick smile as he almost bumps into a couple of scandalized Karens. “I’m sure I’ll see you both again though.”

It comes across as vaguely ominous; a Schwarzenegger-esque, ‘I’ll be back’, but Dean’s almost definitely reading too much into it - he’s spent too much time around Cas and his weirdo read-between-the-lines-of-everything-I-say-rather-than-just-saying-it bullshit. 

“Sure,” Dean nods, but Nick’s already gone, beating a hasty retreat into the clouds of floral perfume and entitlement. 

_Alright then._

Dean slants Cas a look out of the corner of his eye, “Now was that necessary?”

“Necessary, no. Fun? Yes.”

  
  


***

  
  


It's interesting how nobody's considered why a private school taking in hundreds of thousands of dollars per year in fees even needs to run a bake sale in the first place. The red brick building is in good shape; well maintained and the grounds are landscaped as tastefully as you could expect from a self-important institution that thinks croquet is an American pastime. 

The first time he and Lisa had a tour of the place, Dean had been utterly astounded to discover that not only was the ‘sport’ the Heathers utilized as a form of social jockeying actually a real thing, but that it was taken seriously AF at the school his ex wanted their son to attend. 

Luckily for Dean, as with all other forms of physical activity, Ben has proven his genetic lack of sporting inclination in the field of croquet. Though he did like the big, dangerous mallet.

His propensity for wielding sporting equipment as weapons (because Dean’s definitely counting the baseball-bat-to-Simon-Weebler's-shins incident) might also be genetic, though admittedly it’s lain dormant in Dean until he met Cas. But now Dean’s eyes have been opened and there’s no denying that household items and sporting equipment are so much more interesting in a fight than a gun. 

The school isn’t raising money for the aforementioned sporting equipment though, because that’s yet something else that the parents are expected to dig deep for. Same with field trips and pretty much anything else. 

Which begs the question: just what are they raising money for? 

The couple hundred bucks they make at each go-round must surely just be a drop in the ocean of whatever they’re going for. Not even enough to buy donuts for the teacher's lounge for a week.

So. It’s either a scam of some kind and they’re just piss-poor criminals, or it’s a front for some kind of keys in the bowl thing. 

Dean’s honestly not sure which theory he’d be more delighted in being true. 

Still, he's nothing if not a team player - suburban orgy or piss-poor criminals be damned - so he digs deep - a lot easier these days now that practically all of his transactions are in cash for obvious reasons - and drops a crisp (genuine, he’s not a jerk) twenty into the honesty box, musing whether to go for a slice of lemon drizzle or bundt cake.

Cas is dressed to impress - or _devastate_ \- and making nice with some of the teachers over by a different row of trestle tables, no doubt offering to volunteer for shit that Dean wants no part of, but will be roped into anyways, because _‘we need to be present in the school community, Dean, blah blah blah.’_

_Yeah, yeah._

Cas makes a point of glancing over at Dean from time to time, as he feigns interest in whatever the headmistress is gesticulating excitedly about, and if Dean wasn’t standing with Lisa, he’d be making up the conversation in their respective voices, like the mature adult he is. 

He _is_ with Lisa though, so he refrains, instead making sure to pay attention to their actual conversation, even as Cas makes eye contact, tries to communicate his intentions through nothing more than sky blue intensity and the amused tilt of his plush mouth. 

Dean’s not entirely successful, because Cas is thoroughly distracting. The navy suit he’s wearing is one of Dean’s favorites; tailored as fuck with a jacket that fits a little _too_ well and pants that hug his thick thighs. 

_Fucker._

“...and then I told Ben that he could smoke crack if he wanted to, because I’ve heard it’s much healthier than meth--”

_Huh._

Oh.

Dean flashes a sardonic smile at Lisa, “Yeah, yeah. You’re very funny.” 

She grins, pleased with herself. “It’s good to know that you draw the line at our son doing drugs, because I talked about my underwear drawer for at least five minutes and that got no response.”

“Really?” He says, only exaggerating his disappointment, rather than making it up entirely. “Wanna run it by me again?”

Dean has never felt so lucky to have her in his life. After the shit went down with Cas getting shot, he’d gone to her just before they moved, explained as best as he could without telling her everything. Understandably, she’d been skeptical, but after some assurances that nothing like that night would ever happen again - Dean will make damn sure of it - she’d been surprisingly okay with things going back to normal. 

The implication being that Ben’s had enough upheaval with losing Benny. He can’t lose Cas too. 

Something in Dean’s chest constricts when he thinks about how close they both came to losing Cas. 

Even as the bastard shoots Dean a deliberately heated glance from where he’s over by the arched entrance of the school, flirting with Ms. Hayes now. 

Cas might’ve survived that shooting, but he’s not gonna survive Dean if he carries on. 

“You’re scowling.”

Dean munches aggressively on the brownie square he ended up choosing, “Am not.” He muffles through a mouthful. It’s not bad, but now he’s wishing he’d been brave enough for the lemon drizzle. 

She laughs, a light sound, “He’s marrying _you_ , dumbass, there’s no need to be all jealous. Though it is pretty cute.”

Dean’s not jealous. He’s _not_. 

And even if he was, it’s not _cute_. It’s manly rage. 

But he’s not.

Ms. Hayes places a palm on Cas’ shoulder as she laughs - _neighs_ \- at something he’s said - pithy and scathing, no doubt - then trails it down over his chest, resting it on the lapel of his suit jacket. It’s overfamiliar and unmistakably flirty, and Cas - the absolute fucker - looks past her, to Dean. He smirks at him, that arrogant asshole smirk, then nonchalantly turns his attention back to Ms. Hayes, like he knows _exactly_ what he’s doing. 

_Bastard._

Dean wipes the crumbs off his hands, wonders loosely if he can find that dude - _Nick_ \- from before. Just to mess with Cas right back. 

Could be fun, but would almost certainly end messy. Plus, Dean’s just been itching for an excuse to get back at Ms. Hayes for all her shitty behavior the last couple of years.

_And here it is._

He pecks Lisa on the cheek, “I’ll catch up with you later, yeah?” And he’s off across the neatly mowed grass before his ex can respond or tell him to stop being such a jealous, pig-headed idiot. 

It’s not like he’d listen anyways.

The aforementioned arrogant smirk - the one that always has Dean wanting to punch him or fuck him - spreads wider across Cas’ full mouth, completely contrived and Dean knows he’s being played like a fucking tutorial level, but still can’t quite stop himself from responding, ‘cause Cas just has that incendiary, blood-boiling effect on him. 

But. Cas isn’t the only one adept at this game by now, and Dean knows exactly how to get a rise (in oh, _so many_ ways) out of Cas in return. 

“Hey, _babe._ ” He plants a sloppy, chocolatey kiss on Cas’ jaw, slides an arm around his broad shoulders. He pretends to catch sight of Ms. Hayes out of the corner of his eye and starts, “Oh, hello Ms. Hayes - _Rosalind_ \- I didn’t see you there.”

_See? Shoulda been an actor._

Her expression is incredulous, Cas’ humored, as Dean asks, “It is still _Ms_., right? Not managed to nail anyone down yet?”

Dean’s feeling particularly unforgiving today. 

She’s always had a problem with him and by proxy, Ben. Thankfully, she’s not Ben’s teacher anymore, which means the shit she gave him last year simply for having Dean as a dad is gonna come due right fucking now. 

_With interest._

As for Cas, well. This is payback for so many things. Least of all whatever the fuck that was with Nick before.

_Two fuckheads, one insincere Dean._

Cas’ hand situates itself on Dean’s lower back, most likely a warning rather than encouragement, but Cas can’t just throw the gauntlet down and not expect Dean to pick it up. Not anymore. 

“Mr. Winchester,” She’s too shocked to be at her full, bitter, judgy self, brown-almost-black eyes wide and disbelieving as she looks between them, “What on earth--”

“Hmm?” He asks, faux innocently, trying not to wince when Cas digs a pointy finger into Dean’s kidney - _definitely a warning_ , “Oh, me and Cas? Yeah, we’re getting married.” The finger jabs deeper and Dean has to actively fight against squirming away, his own hand slipping down to palm Cas’ ass, “Hashtag blended family, hashtag _blessed_ , am I right, Cas?”

He receives a bruising pinch for that one. _Fucking worth it._

Her face and entire posture just sort of crumples. “Married?”

_Oh wow. She actually thought she had a chance._

Fair play to her though, she recovers quickly, pulls herself back together and glares at Cas like he’s been stringing her along only to friendzone her, right as she was about to invite him around to her home for cheese pasta or something equally whitebread and uninspiring, “ _Married?_ ”

_Oooh, Cassie, you got some ‘splainin’ to do._

“Uh-huh,” Dean confirms before Cas can get a word in, enjoying this far too much, “He got down on one knee and everything, ain’t he a peach?” On a small adrenaline rush as his words hang in the air, really hamming it up, Dean adds, “He told me that I’m the only one for him. That no matter how many people he flirts with--” He leans in to Ms. Hayes and her powdery perfume like he’s sharing a secret, “-- and it’s a _lot_ believe me, ‘cause he’s very popular if you know what I mean,” He winks salaciously, leans back, makes a show of squeezing Cas’ ass, “it’s me he loves.”

He stops short of pinching Cas’ cheek, figures his fiancé is probably one false move away from bludgeoning him to death. 

Ah, but what a way to go. 

Ms. Hayes seems as though she’s wavering between fainting or slapping Cas. 

Dean’s experiencing the same dilemma. 

He _really_ wants her to slap Cas, but if she faints then they can sneak off to the school restrooms and Dean can live up to the graffiti that a 13-year-old Sammy discovered written in a Connecticut bathroom stall about his older brother. 

It’s not like Cas would say no either; he’s practically vibrating with the need to take it out of Dean’s ass, and it’s a cheap thrill but Dean’s pleased that he can still rile Cas up like this. Even though - according to Cosmo and all those girly magazines that Dean has _never ever_ read - they’re in the dying throes of the honeymoon phase of their relationship.

If all it takes to keep this crazy train rolling is some expert-level provocation and annoyance, then Dean’s got this shit _covered_. 

“Well,” She says primly, smoothing out the invisible creases of her perfectly buttoned blush cardigan, “I suppose congratulations are in order.”

“Aw, thanks,” Dean coos, laces his fingers through Cas’, brings their joined hands up to his mouth and presses a kiss to Cas’ knuckles. “We would have invited you, but we only want people we actually like there.”

The look on her face is _perfect._ It’s everything Dean’s ever dreamed of when he’s imagined getting his simple revenge on this bitch for being so utterly foul to him all this time. He doesn’t care if Cas edges him until he cries - it wouldn’t be the first time - this is going straight to the top five of his revenge realizations, slotting nicely below Crowley and above Benny. 

Her mouth is a shocked O, coral lipstick fading in the corners of her lips, “I’ve just got to…” She gestures vaguely over her shoulder, dazed, like she can’t quite believe what’s just happened, “Ummm, yes.” And then she’s finally fucking off, practically running away from them. 

Dean sighs happily. Cas hasn’t let go of his hand.

If Dean wasn’t such a dick, he’d probably feel a _teeny_ bit sorry for her. But he is, so he doesn’t.

There’s nothing but crime and punishment in Cas’ tone when he asks lowly, “Now was that necessary?”

Dean grins, “Necessary, no. Fun? _Hell_ yes.”

  
  


***

  
  


Unfortunately, they have a meeting to attend before they can go home and Cas can try his hand at making Dean regret it, (and Dean can pretend that he does for the five minutes required, before he’s back to smart-mouthing Cas again). 

Cas doesn’t speak to him on the way over to the casino. Just turns his music up and pretends Dean doesn’t exist as Dean sneaks glances at him from the driver’s side, interprets the near unintelligible lyrics in his own style, reimagining the words to this particular _Devildriver_ song. At the top of his voice of course, because maybe if he annoys Cas enough, he’ll get fucked so thoroughly that he can’t walk and then he won’t have to attend the stupid council meeting tomorrow. 

Admittedly, the plan has holes (heh) but he’s enjoying the fuck outta himself. 

Cas switches the song off with an irritated flick of his wrist, right as Dean’s yelling out, “Let the chaos reeiiiiiiignnn!” which are the _actual_ lyrics, so Cas is just being a grumpasaurus, really.

The look Cas shoots him promises retribution; the blue of his eyes so vivid and alive that it sends a shiver from the base of Dean’s skull to the tip of his dick. 

Cas turns away again to stare out the window like a moody emo from the early noughties, and murmurs something that sounds an awful lot like, _‘karma’s a bitch,_ ’ and Dean laughs, thoroughly pleased with himself.

_Chaos - 1, Organization - 0._

  
  


***

  
  


It is a truth universally acknowledged that gold and white are fucking tacky, okay? White and silver, fine. Gold and black, fine. White and gold? Nah. Not unless you have oodles of money to pour into making it not tacky. 

For all the money Crowley had, he lacked taste - as evidenced by literally everything in his house and this casino. 

Luckily, the place is mostly charred to crisp, which means that any remaining gold is paired with black. 

_Result._

Cas has acquired a crowbar from somewhere and either he’s considering the merits of bashing Dean’s brains in or he’s feeling especially extra this afternoon. ( _Probably both_ ). ‘Cause really, it’s perhaps a little over the top for an introductory meeting with a relatively small local gang who want in on Cas’ protection racket, but Dean’s not the intimidation expert, so he’s happy to just offer support where necessary.

Because he _can_ be a mature adult and menacing gangster when called upon, even though Cas isn’t making it easy to maintain their temporary time-out, what with his semi-successful attempts to slowly and methodically kill Dean with his filthy looks and ass-hugging pants.

But Dean perseveres, because they’re _professionals_ after all, and this is the 1914 Christmas game of soccer in World War 1. As soon as they’re done here, all bets are off again and Dean cannot _wait_. 

“So, remind me. Who are these guys?” Dean asks, strolling between the rows of melted slot machines, lit only by the narrow streaks of light slanting down through the ceiling. The whole place holds the smolder of fire and burnt manmade materials. It’s pretty unpleasant and Dean’s mildly concerned that they may never get the stink out, but that’s mostly Gabe’s worry for the moment. 

This is the first time that any of them have been inside, as they’ve only recently been given the go-ahead by a fire inspector that this place is safe (enough). The bodies that could be removed were taken away along with any hazardous debris. According to the police report though, the fire burned so hot that there was barely anything left. Mostly charred remains and ash.

_Just like Crowley._

“A bunch of rookies,” Cas replies from somewhere to Dean’s left. Over by the ex-poker tables, Dean suspects. He hears the clang of metal, the splintering of wood and Cas’ voice is slightly less even when he adds, "It’ll be good to take them under our wing for now. We’ll need some fall guys in the near future. They’ll be perfect.”

Absolutely ruthless. Dean loves it.

_Loves him._

“You’re gonna outsource to them?”

More sounds of machinery being torn apart, followed by a low grunt from Cas, then something metallic clattering to the floor. Cas is most likely imagining Dean’s head in place of whatever he’s busy destroying further, as he finishes off what the fire didn’t. 

Dean nudges a large piece of debris - _could be a piece of roof?_ \- out of the way with the toe of his boot. There used to be a fiberglass bar along the far wall of this place, with kitschy lanterns above it. The bar has barely survived - softened into an even uglier hunk of junk - but the lanterns succumbed. The stairs leading up to the private rooms - both sets - are malformed and unusable, the entire upper floor completely lost to them for now. 

Gabe and the bisexual anti-hero Constantine certainly did a number on this place. 

Cas appears at the head of the row of destroyed slot machines, directly in front of Dean, crowbar over his shoulder, suit immaculate as always, despite the impromptu construction work, “Yes. _We_ are.”

“Huh,” Dean says, going to his fiancé, sliding his hand up his chest, resting his palm over Cas’ heart, counting the beats. “Let me make sure I’ve understood this correctly. You--” At Cas’ _look_ , he corrects himself, “-- _We_ are gonna set this gang up to take the fall for the arson because the police chief needs someone to pay for it and of course, he has to be seen to be doing something. Otherwise they’ll fire his ass and he’ll get replaced with a cop _not_ on our payroll and that’ll be bad for everybody, because then we’ll get someone competent.”

“Or even worse,” Cas says, deadpan, “Someone who can actually play tennis.”

_62._

“You’re an arrogant fucker, anybody ever tell you that?”

Cupping Dean’s jaw, Cas drags his thumb across Dean’s bottom lip, seemingly fascinated with the way the skin catches, “And you’re marrying me, so what does that say about you?”

_That arrogant fuckers make my dick hard?_

Dean’s pretty sure Cas just pulled the gangster equivalent of _‘you are rubber and I am glue’_.

Before Dean can act on impulse and suck the tip of Cas’ thumb into his mouth, Cas is drawing back, putting distance between them like he knows what’s about to happen and is keen to avoid it at all costs.

It’s probably wise. Not super professional if they get caught with their pants down by their new subordinates.

Not exactly hygienic either. 

Dean watches Cas walk away, murmurs, “Carly Simon wrote a song about you, y’know.”

Smoothly, Cas ducks under what was once some kind of light fitting, says, “I only _thought_ it was about me. Glad to have the confirmation.”

“Dick,” Dean says without heat. He turns back the way he came, a weird sort of claustrophobia creeping in the further into the casino he glimpses. 

“Mmmm,” Cas agrees from somewhere behind him, “Oh by the way, when we get home, remind me to book the hotel and airfare.”

Dean doesn’t stop, keeps forging his way back to the ostentatious entrance, “For what?”

There’s a short pause, then:

“I didn’t tell you?” Cas’ voice is scarily closer than Dean would’ve expected. Something close to anticipation trips up his spine.

“Cas, you know damn well you didn’t.” 

_Are you going to tell me now, you shithead?_

A couple of beats pass and then Dean’s shivering as Cas’ warmth breath ghosts over the back of his neck. He turns his head enough to catch Cas’ eye, only inches between them and Cas is watching him through those thick, inky lashes, “Our honeymoon. I’ve decided where we’re going.”

_Oh._

Dean’s pretty sure that it was Gandhi or some wise old dude that said: ‘An agreement made in the throes of passion is probably going to come back and bite you in the ass.’

He might be paraphrasing a bit, but it’s the sentiment that counts. He promised Cas free reign over their honeymoon destination and itinerary in exchange for letting Dean come after four hours of brutal teasing. 

It made sense at the time.

Now? Not so much.

He’s about to ask _where, when, how,_ but of course Gabriel chooses that moment to let them know that Tyrus is here.

All business and smugocity™, Cas gestures for Dean to go first, so with a final glare over his shoulder, Dean does, following Gabriel to a thankfully less dingy part of the casino near the doors. 

“Castiel,” Tyrus, a man who does not look like he should be part of a gang (he’s more _Home & Garden Television _ than _Crime + Investigation_ ), let alone leading one, steps forward to shake Cas’ hand. Cas obliges, but then makes a point of bringing Dean in on the introductions.

“This is my partner, Dean.” He says and there’s an edge to his voice, like he’s just waiting for Tyrus to make something of it. Dean doesn’t miss how his hand tightens around the crowbar, ready to fuck the plan all to hell simply because somebody disrespects Dean.

And they say romance is dead. 

Luckily for Tyrus, he barely even blinks, just shakes Dean’s hand as well. “Nice to meet you, Dean.” 

“You too,” Dean responds honestly. Guy seems alright; it’ll kinda suck to send him down for some shit that he didn’t do, but if it’s him or them? Dean will happily make that choice all day long.

“To what do we owe this visit?” Cas asks, sliding the crowbar onto the edge of the mutated bar, apparently content with his rolled intimidation check.

Tyrus sighs, “Well, we’ve been having some trouble over the water with the Kansas City lot and we want to boost our presence. We figured that offering our security services once you’ve got your gambling establishments up and running would be a good place to start.”

It’s a serious gamble (so at least they’re in the right place) for Tyrus and co. Cas ain’t exactly little league and he’s obviously going to have his own security. Still, they’ve got balls coming to him and Dean admires that. 

“It’s going to be months before that happens,” Cas tells Tyrus, “What about in the meantime?”

He already knows the answer though, because he’s _Cas_ and he doesn’t do anything without thinking it through. 

Dean’s already considering the possibility that him not shooting Benny was actually part of his master plan to take the whole fucking kingdom, rather than the slip-up that everyone assumed it was. Cas is a devious fucker, adept at playing the long game. Dean certainly wouldn’t be surprised.

“We were hoping you’d let us in on your protection racket.”

 _Ah_. They knew this was coming, but still. It’s a tricky situation.

Cas shrugs faux-casually, “That ‘Kansas City lot’ across the water is what’s left of the midwest Sicilian mafia. We don’t want to be treading on their toes by helping you. I’ve kept out of their way all these years. What’s in it for us to get involved now?”

Tyrus catches sight of Gabriel moving to his left, gets distracted momentarily, but then he’s back on Cas and Dean, “You wouldn’t be getting involved - just giving us work to pad our CV.”

“I dunno,” Dean interjects, “Sounds a _lot_ like us getting involved. You know how these old school gangsters are, right? They ain’t gonna take kindly to us meddling in their affairs. And us helping their enemy? The very definition of meddling in their affairs.”

_Thank you Goodfellas._

Tyrus looks pained, “So you’re not gonna help me?”

Cas and Dean exchange meaningful glances. “I tell you what,” Cas says, magnanimous but dangerous, all spider-to-the-fly, “We’ll let you take over some of our protection jobs in the interim between now and the casino getting finished, and in exchange, you keep quiet about your involvement with us until then.”

Win-win. Well, except for where it’s a win for Cas and a loss for everybody else.

“So you expect my men to work for you with no acknowledgment and no payment? That defeats the point somewhat, no?”

“No,” Dean says, “You’ll still be getting paid. We just need you to keep it on the down-low that you’re working for us. If any of your men get picked up by the cops, they can’t spill who they’re working for, no matter the charges.”

Which will be federal-level arson. Whoops.

“It’s just until we build the casino. And then you can scream it from the rooftops.” Cas adds with a sharp smile.

Well, not quite, ‘cause the last thing they need is a fucking RICO case, but the gang will be long gone before then anyways. 

“Why do you need us to wait?”

Of course, they’re not going to tell him the truth, but they can tell him a believable half-truth. “We’ve just finished a war,” Cas explains, “Until the casino is sorted, we can’t afford to potentially start another one. Least of all with the dregs of the local branch of the mafia. If it gets back to them before we’re ready, then it could spell disaster. For all of us.”

Tyrus seems to debate this for a couple of moments. “Alright. You gentlemen have got yourselves a deal.”

_Too fuckin’ easy._

  
  


***

  
  


As Cas firmly steers Dean into their house with a splayed palm on the nape of his neck, like he’s controlling an errant dog - which Dean kinda sorta _really_ likes - two things quickly become apparent.

One: Cas has got violence in his eyes; it’s that look he gets just before he kneecaps someone or beats them to death with a paperweight that their friend brought them back from Antigua. Dean put that look there and he can’t wait to reap the rewards.

Two: Dean’s not gonna be reaping much of anything any time soon because of their fucking cockblocking kids. 

Words he actually very nearly yells aloud when they reach the end of the snack-based trail in the kitchen and finally see the full extent of the teenage-induced chaos. There’s food strewn about all over the countertops and Dean’s _really_ regretting dragging his heels about hiring a professional, because now he’s the sucker who has to clean this shit. 

There’s chips and candy scattered everywhere, bags torn asunder and the cupboards are all open like a tornado or a bunch of stoned college kids ripped through the place, and Dean’s fucking _furious_. 

Dean raised Ben better than this and Cas sure as shit raised Claire better. 

Dean picks up a decimated bag of chips. The remainder spill out onto the floor, “Who the _fuck_ has opened this bag of Fritos like a bear at a friggin’ campsite? Fucking animals!”

“Language,” Cas scolds in that offhand, uptight way he gets when there either are or might be other people’s children within a five-mile radius. It’s kinda cute.

Cute, but redundant, because the word _fuck_ is the very least of Ben and Claire’s worries right now.

The pair of them had asked if they could have some friends over for a pool-slash-slumber party over their couple of days off during fall break. Cas and Dean had said yes, because why not?

Well, apparently _this_ is why not.

Dean risks a glance at Cas, hoping for some solidarity here, some kind of united front that they can put to the kids when they get grounded for the rest of their natural-born days.

Except Cas is completely indifferent to the disaster zone that is their kitchen. He’s much more interested in trying to burn his thoughts into Dean’s brain with nothing more than some serious willpower and the kind of unfathomable, bottomless stare that never fails to make Dean whimper and roll over for it.

_Oh shit._

“Cas,” Dean warns, palms up as he backs away, maize-based snacks crunching underfoot until his ass hits the island countertop and he has nowhere else to go. 

Cas boxes Dean against the counter, hands braced on either side of his body to quash any escape attempt. Dean’s raised palms press against the firm swell of Cas’ chest as he leans in, attempting to eradicate any remaining space between them. “Dean.”

Dean swallows hard around nothing, already hemorrhaging his advantage and losing the ground he’d worked so hard to gain today. “Kids, remember?” 

“Mmmhmm,” Cas’ eyes drop to Dean’s lips, voice a dark rumble, “I think they've earned themselves a bit of parental trauma, don't you?"

It's a difficult point to argue, especially when Cas drags his mouth along Dean's jawline and down the tight tendon of his neck, sharp points of his teeth nipping as he goes. Dean clings to Cas' back with both hands, twisting his fists in Cas' jacket, jerking his hips up as Cas grinds down, lightheaded with the rush of blood south, their rapidly hardening cocks rubbing together through the rough fabric of their pants. 

“Fuck,” Dean murmurs, already lost to this, to _Cas_. 

Cas huffs a laugh against Dean’s cheek, stuttered drag of stubble and skin, and then they’re trading breaths as Cas murmurs, “Watch your mouth,” right before Dean chases those words with his own lips, licking his way into Cas’ mouth, kissing him deeply.

They’re both breathing raggedly by the time Cas pulls away; pink, plush slick of his mouth, and fevered brightness of blue eyes rapidly giving way to the blackness of pupil, as the desperate stilted, rhythm of their hips aligns their erections together over and over again. Dean dives in for another filthy-hot kiss, chasing Cas’ tongue, pleasure winding tight around his nerve endings, Cas’ mouth hot and open under his and it’s good, _so fucking good_ , like it always is.

Dean jolts against Cas when his phone vibrates in his pocket, startling him into thinking through the hazy pleasure and the immediate need to drop a hand between them and palm Cas’ cock.

_Well, fuck._

“Don’t answer that,” Cas’s breath is warm and moist, curling around Dean’s ear. 

Dean fumbles his phone out of his pocket. It takes a couple of attempts, because Cas is being less than fucking helpful and his brain is stuck on a loop of _‘fuck me cas, fuck me cas, fuck me cas’._

It’s Sam.

“Don’t answer that,” Cas repeats in a thick growl, snatching the phone out of Dean’s hand and slamming it down onto the island behind Dean. He rocks his hips up, grabbing a handful of Dean’s ass, dragging him in harder and Dean makes a helpless noise, already close to being undone.

The ringing stops.

Cas’ nimble fingers go to Dean’s belt, yanking the leather free. 

The ringing starts again.

Dean slaps blindly behind himself, reaching for his cell. Before Cas can punt it into the nearest fountain, Dean answers, breathlessly, “Sam, what’s up?”

Cas maneuvers a thick thigh between Dean’s, and his mouth falls open when Cas drags his zipper down, shoving at his jeans and boxers until he can get a hot palm around Dean’s dick. 

“You need to get down here.”

_Pretty sure that’s not what I need, Sammy._

Dean tilts his head back on a silent moan, fucking up into Cas’ touch. Which is a mistake because it only gives Cas more access to Dean's skin and he takes advantage fully, sucking a hickey into the hollow of his throat. Dean barely manages to squeak out a shaky, “Why?”

There's a short pause and Dean's pretty sure even Sam isn't so sexually uptight that he can't figure out what's going on at this end of the phone. He must've had sex at some point in his life, right? He has a kid for Christ's sake. Unless Madison spawned asexually like an amoeba or some shit. 

_Apparently_ , because Sam just sighs that hard done by sigh and says, “Benny’s here, with a shipment of some kind.”

_Oh for fuck’s sake._

Cas slides his arm around Dean’s waist, holding him steady as his hips buck, Cas’ clever fingertips fluttering over the crown of his cock, “What?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, doesn’t follow it up with a _‘I know, what the fuck’_ but Dean can tell it’s there, “Apparently he’s some kind of delivery driver now?”

_Interesting career shift._

Yeahuh. This ain’t exactly kismet. 

The solution, however, seems fairly obvious - even to Dean’s sex-addled brain - and Sam _cannot_ be this dumb, “Well, just take the delivery and I’ll be there tomorrow.”

Unimpressed and no doubt pulling an epic bitchface, Sam responds, “He’s asking for you. _Well_ , the owner. Says he’s got instructions to make sure that you sign for it.”

Because of course he has. 

Dean exhales on a sigh, patience for this fuckery at an all-time low as Cas trails sharp nips and soothing kisses across his collarbone, pulling the neck of his shirt wider to get at more skin, the hand on Dean’s cock slowly pumping, dragging out the pleasure, rhythm easy and loose like they’ve got all the time in the world, “Just forge my fucking signature, Sam. It’s not like DHL, UPS or who-the-hell-ever is gonna know who signed.” Because he’s feeling bitchy, he adds, “Fuck, if it comes to it, just get Benny to forge my signature. He got really good at it when he pulled that stunt with the mortgage.”

Cas' mouth and hand slow and Dean knows he's listening intently for what comes next now that he-who-shall-not-be-named has been mentioned.

There’s a rustle at the other end and he can hear Sam speaking to someone - presumably Benny if the muffled Southern lilt that responds is anything to go by - before he’s back, talking directly to Dean again, “Benny says he’s working for a private courier and it absolutely _has_ to be your signature.”

Suspicious now, Dean asks, “What is it, Sam? The delivery.”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, _you don’t know_?” Dean says hotly and there must be something coloring the tone of his voice because Cas is no longer trying (and succeeding) to drive Dean out of his mind, instead, he’s staring at Dean, head tilted, hand a barely-there caress on Dean’s erection.

_God-fucking-dammit._

Frowning and squinty, Cas mouths, “What’s going on?”

Dean shakes his head in reply just as Sam says, “He won’t tell me, but there’s a haulage truck and a driver outside the shop.”

Well, this isn’t going to be anything good, is it. 

Taking a second to mourn the life-altering sex session that almost was, Dean snaps, “Fine. Fuck’s sake. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

  
  
  


***

  
  


Not _I’ll be there._ **_We’ll_ ** _be there._

Because where Dean goes on Benny-related bullshit, Cas follows. Or more accurately, where Dean goes on Benny-related bullshit, Cas leads with murderous intent and hands poised, ready to strangle.

Still, if nothing else, this should be one hell of a dramatic scene.

Sam’s all hand-wringy on the edge of the forecourt as they pull up and exit the Impala. There is indeed a huge hauler truck complete with bored driver leaning out of the cab, so at least Sam’s not having a particularly lucid hallucination like that time he accidentally purchased magic mushrooms at a new agey farmer’s market.

Serves him right for only buying organic.

Dean stops to find out what’s going on from his brother, while Cas storms on ahead, despite Dean yelling his name repeatedly, and when that fails, he goes for a last-ditch, “Don’t do anything stupid!” 

Ironic advice really, considering who it’s coming from. 

Sam looks like he’s one incident away from unionizing and Dean doesn’t need the extra paperwork, honestly. Things are a bit manic right now (an understatement on par with Dahmer’s ‘I really messed up this time’ after he was caught), and there’s no guarantee that he wouldn’t mix up Sam’s request for safer working conditions with the wedding seating chart, and accidentally tell him that the solution is to switch Donna and Missouri around so that Gabriel isn’t within flirting distance. 

It’s a strategy to live by, but it’s not going to help Sam when he’s concerned about bombs in trucks rather than a handsy mischief catalyst. 

Even so, Dean makes a mental note to reconfigure the seating arrangements anyways, because Gabe and Sam could be _fun_ to watch. As long as he remembers to remember, something he’s not been super great with lately. He only just realized on the way over here that he was supposed to call back one of the vendors and ended up having Cas leave an overly stern voicemail. Which is great when they’re trying to negotiate prices on a limited stock of Barrett anti-tank rifles (yes, _really,_ and Dean is undoubtedly looking forward to that delivery) but not so great when he’s trying to butter up a little indie stationer who has _the_ cutest designs. Dude might be charming as fuck in person, but over the phone, particularly when leaving voicemail messages, he just comes across as somebody who crash-landed to earth five minutes ago and isn’t sure of the etiquette.

So, yeah. Last thing he needs, “What the hell, Sam?”

His brother shrugs, as lost as Dean is. Perhaps even more so, which is a first, “I don’t know.”

Still. It bears repeating, “No, seriously, what the hell?”

Sam sighs like his life is one big shitshow and Dean is the ringmaster (he’s not; at best he’s a low-level clown). “Benny turned up about ten minutes before I called you. Everything I said over the phone is all I know. He’s refusing to take it back. Said his boss wouldn’t like it.”

Dean’s pretty sure that Benny’s boss would like what Cas is probably doing to his employee even less, but that’s neither here nor there.

“He say who his boss is?”

Head shake, hair everywhere, “Just that it’s important _you_ receive this delivery personally.”

Because that doesn’t sound ominous _at all_. 

Seriously. Entire _Criminal Minds_ story arcs have been built on flimsier premises. 

“Alright,” Dean says, checks the time on his phone. It’s only just after four, but as far as Dean can remember, there’s nothing else scheduled for today, illicit-business-wise, so they can take the hit. “You should send everyone home for the day.”

If this is even close to what Dean is worried it might be, then it’s probably safer that they get everybody else clear. Plus Bobby is shooting him a DEFCON level three glare over Sam’s well-defined shoulder and he just is _not_ in the mood. 

Dean receives a brow crease for that, “Really? What’s going on?”

As established, Dean has no idea, but he’s not about to find out through the endangerment of those around him. 

He claps his brother on the shoulder, “Soon as I know, you will.”

It’s a lie, but Dean’s becoming as proficient with them as everybody else around him now.

He leaves his brother standing there catching flies and follows after Cas, working his way to the office through the forecourt, past the cars Jo and Bobby are working on, and up the stairs. The blinds are pulled shut and he can hear Benny’s panicked Cajun and Cas’ tight responses from outside the door. 

_And here we go._

He barges in, only a little afraid of what he’s gonna find. Cas (hopefully) has the good sense not to make Benny bleed, but that doesn’t exactly mean it’s gonna be a tea party. 

_Yeahhhh, definitely not a tea party._

Cas doesn’t pay his entrance any mind, effortlessly holding Benny in place against the desk, one hand around his throat, the other pressing a gun to his forehead, expression life-threatening and avenging, fury written into the tautness of muscle and the tic of his jaw. 

Dean’s mesmerized, distracted by the sure-fingered grip of Cas’ hand as he flexes, the deceptive strength of him being one of Dean’s biggest kinks; how easily Cas manhandles people bigger than himself, forces them exactly where he wants them. 

_God._

Maybe once they’ve gotten rid of Benny, they can have a repeat performance of their first sexual encounter in this office, ‘cause Dean’s dick is very much interested and this little display is certainly not helping.

_Focus._

Cas’ attention may not be on him right now, but Benny’s is; just-the-wrong-shade of blue falling on Dean as he enters the small space. He looks good. A lot better than the last time they saw each other, even with the way his cheeks redden and his heels kick up, flailing for purchase as Cas cuts off his air. He’s not wearing any kind of recognizable courier uniform, which pretty much confirms Dean’s suspicion that this isn’t going to be that stereo system they ordered for the media room.

“Cas,” Dean murmurs, half-hoping his fiancé doesn’t hear him, but needing him to all the same. 

With a disgusted growl, Cas slams Benny’s temple against the desk once more for good measure, before he releases his hold, situates himself on the narrow window sill opposite the desk. He rests his gun across his thighs, a super hot threat and warning, and Dean reins it the fuck in, tries to play it cool even though it’s not a concept he’s intimately familiar with.

He closes the office door behind himself, folds his arms across his chest, “The fuck are you doing, Benny?”

“The fuck is _he--_ ” he flings a careless hand in Cas’ direction as he rears up like Dracula, the other rubbing at his sore neck, “--doin’?”

_Oh, so we’re playing this old game._

“Attempting to corral you, apparently.”

For once Dean isn’t thinking with his dick, because his thorough annoyance (at not currently thinking with his dick) is winning out. 

“That’s what you’re callin’ it, huh?” Benny sounds betrayed, which is _laughable_.

“Call it what you want, but if you don’t start telling me why you’re here and what’s in that truck then I’ll throttle you myself.”

He probably won’t. It’s much more fun to watch Cas do it. 

Benny considers Dean for a long moment, eyes roaming down and up his body, stuttering over the bruise Cas sucked into the skin over his carotid, finally coming to rest on his face. Dean doesn’t react, but Cas makes a warning noise low in his throat, “You’ve changed.”

“Yeah?” Dean asks, part sarcasm, part venom, “I’m so pleased you noticed.”

Benny jerks his chin in Cas’ direction, “What is it about him, huh? Sure, he’s pretty--” To Dean’s right, Cas cocks his gun, and Benny is either supremely stupid or suicidal, “--but you could have anyone, Dean. Literally _anybody_ \--”

_Suicidal it is._

And apparently playtime is _over,_ because Cas’s fraying patience has finally gone the doomed-to-fail-from-the-start way of Crystal Pepsi and before Dean can blink, Cas is back across the office, pressing the barrel of his gun to Benny’s forehead. 

_Oooh, deja vu._

Except this time, the only reason Dean will be stopping Cas from killing his ex is for a venue change. Can’t be getting blood and brains all over customers’ receipts. That’s just bad for business.

“Why are you here?” Dean grits out, “I’m not playing this game with you, Benny. I don’t have the time.”

Or the inclination, but that part is probably obvious. 

Swallowing hard, Benny’s eyes dart from Cas to Dean, “You love him, cher?”

Oh for fuck’s sake. 

Cas’ mouth twitches into a smile and Dean knows what’s going to happen even before it does. This time though, he has absolutely zero problem with it. 

“I should hope so, or that’s going to make things really awkward on our wedding day.”

Benny’s reaction to Cas’ revelation is even better than Ms. Hayes’ to Dean’s. His eyes widen and his fists clench and he looks a combination of furious and stricken. He doesn’t even spare Cas or the gun currently indenting his skin a glance, “You’re _marrying_ him?”

“Don’t worry,” Cas deadpans, “We’re not expecting a present from you. Though, I suppose if you’re so inclined, there’s a coffee machine I’ve had my eye on.”

Dean groans inwardly. That fucking coffee machine. It’s expense for expense’s sake. They have a perfectly decent one that does the job. There’s absolutely no need to be spending upwards of twenty-five grand on a coffee machine that’s compatible with all sorts of software and comes with a ‘coffee warming area’. Whatever the fuck that is.

Just no. 

Benny’s attention snaps to Cas, “Is this a joke to you?”

Cas arches a brow, all _‘does this look like a joke?’_ but because Benny isn’t fluent in Casinese, Cas has to elaborate, which he does with a roll of his eyes and on a long-suffering sigh, “I’ve been patient with you up until now --” And yeah, he kinda has, actually, “-- but the last time we did this, you still had some of Dean’s pity protecting you. That’s long gone now, so I’d advise you to choose your words wisely and _stop wasting our fucking time._ ”

_Hot._

They stare each other down, Benny foolishly stubborn and not quite cowardly enough to admit when he’s beat, Cas darkly amused and deadly. At one time, Dean would’ve been impressed by Benny's tenacity, now he’s just irritated.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Dean mutters, reaching for the clipboard on the floor at Benny’s feet. It’s not one that belongs to the garage and so his ex must’ve brought it with him. “This yours?” Dean checks, before he flips through a couple of pages of what looks to be a standard invoice.

He doesn’t hear a response, so he glances up. Benny nods. Cas uncocks and lowers his gun, but stays by Benny, an unspoken warning as Dean reads.

He scans the columns, instantly recognizing the numbers and descriptions.

_What the fuck?_

He flicks the top sheet back down, “Car parts?”

Seemingly shaking himself out of whatever funk hearing about Cas and Dean’s impending nuptials put him in, Benny pastes on a shaky grin that gets more and more real the further he settles into it, far too pleased with himself, like he’s somehow pulled off the coup of the century. “My boss wants to sit down with you and break bread. Figured this was the way to your heart. I might have helped him with that.”

_Of course._

There’s over a hundred grand’s worth of stock listed.

Dean moves closer to Cas, pointing out the costings listed in the far right column to him, “Dude,” he says to his fiancé, “There’s stuff here for classic cars that’s appallingly difficult to get ahold of. You’d have to be pretty fucking devoted to getting your hands on this stuff.”

And then to give it all away? Hell of an introduction. 

“Who’s your boss?” Cas asks Benny in a tone that brooks no argument.

To his credit, Benny doesn’t argue, instead leveling a look at Dean, “He wants to sit down with you. Reckons you and he have a lot to discuss.”

“Me?”

“You.” Benny confirms, switches his gaze to Cas, “Not _you_.”

A form of bribery?

 _Or power move._ **_Especially_ ** _if he doesn’t want Cas there._

“Who’s your boss?” Dean asks, an echo of Cas.

Benny eyes him, like he’s deciding which way to play this and it makes Dean’s skin crawl, “C'mon, I’ll show you.”

Dean exchanges a meaningful glance with Cas, before shrugging and following his ex out of the office, tossing the clipboard onto the desk as they leave. 

The rest of the staff are long gone, but Sam’s still hovering around. They make brief eye contact and Dean shakes his head minutely, communicating silently with his brother to stay away. 

This is Dean’s clusterfuck to deal with. 

Outside, Cas falls into step beside Dean. Together, they wordlessly trail behind Benny, though Cas is still holding his gun at his side, ready to soothe his itchy trigger finger. 

As they approach the truck, Benny nods at the driver who hops down from the cab and comes around the side to meet them at the back. He yanks up the rolling shutter, presses a button on a relay switch to activate the hydraulic liftgate.

Once it’s safe, Benny steps up into the cargo area, and Dean and Cas follow cautiously. 

Inside, there really are stacks of rare restoration parts (as opposed to a bomb or tigers or some kind of torture device like Dean had been suspecting). Some are wrapped in cellophane, others are in labeled boxes. 

_Holy shit._

Dean runs his fingers reverently over a differential for a Bentley Mulsanne. This part alone is easily worth several grand. 

“Your boss did all this...for a _meeting_?” Dean clarifies, staring down a custom chrome fender for a Firebird. There’s stuff here that he couldn’t have hoped to get his hands on in a million years. 

It’s kinda amazing. 

Benny grins and shoves a Tupperware container into Dean’s hands with a little more force than strictly necessary, drawls, “Yep. He’s pretty keen on makin’ a good impression from the off.” He shoots a pointed glare in Cas’ direction and Dean almost laughs, ‘cause if Benny thinks that Dean wasn’t smitten from the very first time he saw Cas - good impression or not - then he’s a bigger idiot than Dean thought.

Which is a pretty tall order. 

Cas’ palm curves around Dean’s bicep, ignoring Benny entirely, “Open it.”

Dean gazes down at the container in his hands. He can see that there’s a note taped to the underside of the clear lid, so he unclicks it, pulls it off. 

Inside, there’s a slice of lemon drizzle cake. Undoubtedly from the bake sale. 

Which is both creepy and weird. Did someone send out a fucking bulletin letting all local criminals (‘cause obviously this guy is a criminal) know about his love of baked goods when he wasn’t looking?

Or was it Benny again? Exactly what has his ex been saying about him? And to rival criminals?

Yeah, there’s no way Benny’s gonna be walking away from this with all the digits he sauntered his way into the garage in possession of. 

Dean flips the lid over to read the note.  
  


_How about that cup of coffee? - Nick_

  
  
  


Well, _fuck_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pretty much eleven and a half thousand words of Cas being a possessive ass and Dean being horny on main. So business as usual then.

So. 

Past Dean was a moron. 

There are oh so many delicious reasons why, but the most glaringly obvious one at the moment is that not twenty-four hours previously, he had the throwaway thought that he didn't care if Cas edged him until he cried. 

Yep. Moron.

He could really use Doc Brown or Doctor Strange - hell, he'd even settle for Shatner circa  _ The Voyager Home  _ era - 'cause he'd love to go back in time and slap himself in the face a la Cher to Nic Cage in  _ Moonstruck, _ and demand to know what in the everloving fuck he was thinking.

Certainly not about the consequences of tempting fate around Castiel-I’m-a-fucking-mind-reader-Novak. 

“Cas--” Dean whines, yanked back from the edge once again as Cas’ hand squeezes the base of his dick, halting his orgasm in its tracks, “Please, please,  _ please _ .”

“Shh,” Cas hushes him sharply, right as the head of his dick nails that shocky place inside Dean, makes him keen, arch his body into Cas’.

Helplessly pinned face-first against a bathroom stall, Cas’ forearm across the nape of his neck, holding him still, Dean’s regretting a fair few of his life choices right now. The least of which was his tacit agreement when Cas dragged him into the city hall restrooms a half hour before their meeting, and then allowing Cas to finger him open, before realizing that retribution was promised yesterday but not yet meted out. 

_ Rookie mistake. _

His fingertips slip against the stall partition, no purchase to be had as Cas shoves up into him, stretching him wide, bodies molded spine to chest through the rough fabric of their clothes. He turns his head to catch his boyfriend’s eye, hot breath fogging the cool surface with every rough exhale fucked from his lungs. 

Satisfied he’s pushed Dean’s orgasm back far enough for now, Cas releases his hold, and his next rough thrust sends Dean’s hips bouncing off the partition wall, dick skidding and trailing slick over the powder-coated steel. 

Oh fuck, Dean’s gonna come out of his goddamn skin, unable to move, the strong body behind him fucking him hard enough to leave the permanent impression of Cas’ dick inside forever.

He’s getting close again, as Cas’ teeth scrape up the side of Dean's throat, and he can feel the flex of Cas’ cock inside him, on the verge of coming himself and maybe Dean can, maybe maybe--

“ _ No _ .” Cas slams in so hard and deep that he has Dean going up onto the balls of his feet, held there by the arm across his neck, the fantastic cock splitting him open, the muffled, rhythmic slap of skin on skin that has him pinned against steel. 

Cas is a fucking machine, heavy length of his dick in Dean’s ass, dragging in and out so exquisitely, and even at this awkward angle, it’s perfect, and Dean shudders, tears pricking the corners of his eyes with how much he loves this, how much he needs it. 

"Take it, take it, take it," Cas is snarling over the shell of Dean’s ear, and it's not like Dean's got any choice in the matter.

“Cas,” He manages on a breathy exhale, beyond desperate and achingly hard. “Fuck.” His whole body is trembling, only held up by the weight and strength of Cas behind him, legs unsteady and knees weak. “I need--”

Cas slides a hand around Dean’s hip, closing around the base of his dick and squeezing, staving off his orgasm again. He shoves in deep, once, twice, and then he's coming with a low guttural sound, fucking Dean full with his load.

Cas has always been a proponent of metaphorically and literally staking his claim with his come, so it's comforting to know now that they're getting married, he isn't changing this particular habit. 

Consistency is all Dean asks from his soon-to-be-husband. 

Behind him, Dean can hear the rustling of fabric. Cas is still inside him, slowly softening. Dean clenches and Cas lets out an inhuman noise. 

"Cas," Dean tries, still so fucking close, but unable to teeter off the edge, "Please, please let me come."

Cas ignores him completely, the fucker. But he does find what he's looking for and through Dean’s lust-fueled haze, he recognizes the sound of the travel-sized lube bottle clicked open, squirted onto something that isn’t him or Cas, and then closed again.

Oh fuck.

Cas very slowly begins to pull out, no doubt eyeing the connection between their bodies greedily. He’s always been obsessed with this; the cling of Dean’s body, the way his come looks spilling out onto the sensitive skin of Dean’s perineum, trickling over the seam of his balls. 

Only this time it doesn’t get the chance to spill or trickle anywhere, because as soon as Cas’ dick slips free with the slide of lube and come, Dean feels cool, blunt pressure against his rim and he scrabbles against the steel in front of him as the wide, flared part of what he assumes is a lube-coated silicone butt plug, pops past the resistance in the swollen ring of muscle, sliding into place.

Cas plays a little, pushing and pulling, rocking it back and forth, his eyes almost certainly dark and drawn to where he's working his come back into Dean's body.

"Cas," Dean hisses, painfully hard and turned on beyond belief, dick jerking every time the base is flush with his ass, several inches inside and pressed almost painfully up against his prostate.

"We're going to be late," Cas rumbles, words breathed against the damp nape of Dean's neck. "Get dressed."

_ Oh, come on. (Literally). _

On wobbly legs and with trembling fingers, Dean reaches for his pants and underwear. It takes a couple of attempts where the plug shifts against his insides in new and unusual ways, before Dean manages to drag his clothes over his knees and up his thighs.

In an unusual display of not being a dick for an entire fifteen seconds, perhaps seeing how badly Dean's fingers are shaking, Cas gently maneuvers Dean in order to help him with buttoning and zipping up his pants, Dean biting back a whine as the teeth of the zipper interlock over his hard cock in his boxers. 

He risks a glance at Cas. Aside from the faint blush across the sweep of Cas' cheekbones, no-one would ever know that he'd just fucked his fiancé full and sloppy in a city hall bathroom. He's buttoned up, dick back in his pants, not even a fucking crinkle in his perfectly pressed shirt. 

Dean on the other hand? One glance in the mirror above the sink after he shuffles out of the stall, confirms his worst fear. He's pink-cheeked and sweaty, green eyes blown black and of course there's the massive erection seriously testing the integrity of his new suit's zipper. In short, he looks like he's been pinned down and fucked by either a hurricane of a man or a wild fucking animal. 

It's not always clear which end of the spectrum Cas falls during times like this.

Ache in his plugged up ass, Dean's feeling less than generous, so he's tempted to say the latter. 

Proving Dean's point, Cas is watching him like a lion in the tall grass, a savage, ferocious look in his eyes and it makes Dean's cock twitch. Which is supremely unhelpful given the current situation. Gazes snagging and holding in the mirror, Cas looks away first, scrapes out, "I'll wait outside."

Not as unaffected as he'd have Dean believe then. It's little consolation though when Dean feels one false move away from jizzing his pants like a teenager. 

Which, believe it or not, is actually the least worst of all his options.

Dean nods mutely, not sure that he'd be able to vocalize anything that isn't a moan or him begging Cas.

Giving him a final once over, Cas buttons his own suit jacket one-handed, runs a hand through his hair, and then he's going without a look back over his shoulder. "Two minutes." He says as the door bumps shut and Dean near collapses against the sink like his strings have been cut.

Fuck fuck fuck.

Two minutes… he could easily get himself off in two minutes, but Cas would know, wouldn't he?

_ So fuckin' what. _

He's halfway to getting his dick out again, dumb fingers fumbling with the button on his pants, when a voice comes through the bathroom door. "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Dean freezes, hands hovering. 

Fuck. 

FUCK. 

"Just adjusting to make it more comfortable." 

"Of course you were," comes the dry response. "You have a minute left."

Asshole. 

"I'm beginning to reconsider this whole marriage thing." Dean says to the door, resigned to his fate. He splashes cold water on his face, the equivalent of pissing on a bush fire.

"You can't back out now," Cas tells him from the other side. "We've put down a non-refundable deposit with the photographer."

Dean would laugh if he didn’t think that the vibration would be too close to stimulation. He's nothing but a series of nerve endings and sensations. All the blood in his body is redirected south and his dick doesn't seem to be getting the memo that it needs to not be creating a scene right now.

It's probably not helped by every movement he makes has the plug shifting and dragging inside him. 

Cas is gonna pay for this.

"Time's up, Dean."

Dean sighs. Tries to scrape himself together.

This is going to be a long ninety minutes.

  
  


***

  
  


Walking into a board room with a hard-on when you’re here with the guest of honor is a tricky business. 

It’s doubly tricky when you have to at least  _ appear _ professional, which means no untucked shirts, strategic standing, or subtle adjusting. 

Though Lisa’s informed him on more than one occasion over the years, that whenever men thinking they’re being subtle about adjusting themselves in public, they really  _ really _ aren’t;  _ ‘what if women went around doing that, _ ’ She’d asked in a huff, _ ‘What if we all just walked around with our hands down our pants?’  _ Dean hadn’t been able to answer, too stuck on the visual. 

One that, incidentally, is super un-fucking-helpful to his current  _ pre-dick-ament _ . 

So, yeah. There’s no good way to do this and Cas isn’t helping at all (not that Dean thought he would, but he’d naively  _ hoped _ ), already striding off ahead like he can afford to do without a sex toy in his ass or a care in the world.

Dean shuffles along behind, hyper aware of every inch of his own body; it’s a trip, honestly, and if he weren’t here about to get read the riot act from a bunch of important bigwigs in the city, then he’d probably be enjoying it. 

The meeting room is a bland, standard boardroom style; there’s a fixed projector in the corner, a tiled fireplace opposite the window and a large oval table in the center.

Cas is suddenly there at his side, a palm cupping the underside of his elbow like he’s helping an elderly relative, "Why don't you sit down, Dean?"

_ Why don't you go fuck yourself, Cas? _

Something must show in the feverish, yet defiant, gleam of his eyes, 'cause Cas flashes him a benign smile that is anything but. 

He pulls out a chair, stares Dean down, dead language used to communicate what neither of them are saying aloud. For Cas it's something like:  _ 'i can make this so much worse for you' _ , for Dean it's a resounding:  _ 'fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck you' _ . He wishes he could be wittier right now, but there's sweat beading on the back of his neck, rolling under his shirt collar, and his dick is stubbornly doing its best impression of a flagpole, so all the blood that should be in his brain has deserted him for southern climes.

Still, he knows when he's beaten, so with an annoyed huff he lowers himself gently into the chair. 

It sends a nauseous wave of thick pleasure over him and he has to squeeze his eyes shut, biting his lower lip to keep from crying out. 

Luckily, nobody's paying any attention to him, too focused on Cas. Fucker has the room-commanding charisma of Obama, and the intimidating track record to back it up.

Dean hates him.

There’s four other people sitting around the table; two he recognizes from the gala and their tennis court and two he doesn’t. Cas told him that the DA would be here, as well as the deputy mayor, alongside Councilwoman Tapping and the police chief.

So this is  _ perfect _ timing for Cas’ sex games, of course.

Dean's been dreading this meeting, but it's clear by his posture (and his moody as fuck attitude at the breakfast table this morning) that Cas isn't exactly thrilled to be here either. Apparently, meetings like these are rarely called, but when they are? It's a tongue-lashing and not the fun kind.

For Dean though, it's even less fun because not only is this a telling off, but with the way Cas' has him fighting against a blush (and boner), it's just a higher-stakes version of that time in Cas’ bar with Sam and Charlie when they were still semi-secretive about what they were doing.

_ Yeah, and look how that turned out.  _

There's pretentious looking bottles of sparkling water on the conference table, and sure, Dean's thirsty, but that shit is like licking a battery.

How does someone wake up one day and just decide to make something as bland as water, worse?

_ Obviously a sadist. _

Cas unscrews the cap of the nearest bottle with dextrous fingers, pours himself half a cup, before replacing the lid again. Everyone in the room is transfixed, watching him work, and of all the power moves Cas has pulled, this one where he drinks the rancid bubble water without so much as flinching or hiccuping - seriously, is the guy  _ human _ \- is probably the one that Dean will be recalling and regaling the youngsters with years from now.

It'll be one of those gangster campfire tales. ' _ Did you hear about that sociopath who drank sparkling water like it was nothing - dude was a beast!" _

Or something.

Downing the rest of the water, throat working, skin moving hypnotically under ink, Cas brings his cup back down onto the table and turns to the handful of awestruck faces. 

"You wanted to speak with us?" He gestures loosely in Dean's direction before taking the nearest seat, unbuttoning his suit jacket with one hand as he does, sitting in the chrome-framed chair, straight-backed and tight-lipped.

"Yes," the DA - a ferocious woman with close-set eyes and a Rachel-from-Friends haircut, says, "We wanted to speak with you Castiel, because honestly? The whole debacle with Crowley--”

_ Debacle?  _

That’s a very upper-middle-class way of describing attempted murder, kidnap, arson, and  _ actual  _ murder. There’s probably a few other felonies in there too. Dean’s lost count.

“-- has attracted a lot of unwanted attention and there’s a great deal of pressure on the judicial system to make it right.”

Which is a misnomer, really. How the legal system can ever attempt to remedy harm on this kind of scale is such a bizarre societal myth that Dean would laugh if it wouldn’t draw attention to himself and his pink-cheeked, sweaty, flagpole-boner situation. 

Also, by the ‘judicial system’, she means her and the police chief. Who are in cahoots with someone who considers murder a viable solution to mild disagreements. So y’know, the term is a relative one.

“You’ll have your culprit soon enough,” Cas tells her coolly.

Which, no. No, they won’t. They’ll have a fall guy, and everyone in this room knows it, but won’t acknowledge it.

_ Ah, but the wheels of justice keep a turnin’. _

“Well for your sake, you’d better be right,” The DA says smoothly. “Because this has been somewhat of a PA disaster and we were concerned that you might have decided to throw away years of collaborative effort.”

_ ‘For your sake?’ _

_ ‘Collaborative effort?’  _

Wow. 

Dean’s pissed on Cas’ behalf; what they’re calling a collaborative effort, is Cas doing all of the work and them sitting on their asses, and looking the other way. It’s hardly equal.

The others nod along, all bobblehead dogs, and a low murmur of assent goes up around the table.

Because Cas is a professional, he doesn’t slam her head into the table repeatedly until her brain oozes out of her ears, he just waits patiently, expression relentlessly neutral.

Feeling brave, especially for someone with a cropped close haircut on such a weirdly-shaped head, the Deputy Mayor chimes in, “Your war with Dick Roman and Fergus Crowley has cost this city a lot. There will need to be reparations.”

Oooh. Mistake.

“Is this a joke?” Cas asks tersely, somehow making the act of simply leaning forward in his seat menacing as fuck. The ambient temperature of the room drops a couple of degrees, “Ladies and gentlemen. Have I not done enough for you over the years, made you enough money?"

The four of them exchange worried,  _ 'oh shit we done fucked up' _ glances.

“Because,” Castiel continues, rising out of his chair, begins pacing the room, slowly, dangerously; a tiger trapped in a cage, “It sounds to me as though you’ve stopped trusting me and no ‘collaboration’ as you call it, is complete without trust.”

Dean’s abruptly reminded of that Rorschach prison scene in the  _ Watchmen _ movie; y’know the one -  _ ‘I'm not locked in here with you, you're locked in here with me’. _ Judging by the increasing concern building on their faces, they’re realizing it too. 

_ Yeahhh. _

It's hot like burning and therefore not at all helping the awkward boner situation. Dean's just thankful that literally  _ nobody _ is paying attention to him - he could probably whip it out and start jerking off right here and none of them would dare to take their eyes off the predator in the room.

Which may be the first and only sensible thing they’ve done this morning.

'Cause really, who were they kidding; dragging Cas down here to yell at him like he's an errant schoolboy? He set fire to the city. What makes them think he won't do the same to them? 

It's the very same mistake Crowley made.

_ Next contestant. _

“Castiel,” Councilwoman Tapping attempts to smooth over the statements of her colleagues, “We understand that things have been a little unstable for you lately--” Her eyes dart to Dean and back again and Dean resents the implication. Cas does too, the set of his shoulders stiffening, but she continues on, “--but you have to understand how it all looks from our point of view. First, Dick Roman’s offices are burned to the ground, then a few months later, so is Fergus Crowley’s house and casino?”

And the gambling dens, but nobody’s going to mention them. 

“Surely, you can understand our concerns?”

The set of Cas’ mouth gives nothing away to the casual observer, but Dean can pretty much pinpoint Cas’ precise emotion.

It’s not looking good for anyone in this room.

“No,” Castiel answers, “I really can’t. We’ve been working together since the beginning, Councilwoman Tapping, and you’ve always given me the benefit of the doubt for things far worse than this. I have yet to steer any of you wrong and you all know it. So what is this really about, hmm?”

Nobody answers.  _ Dares _ to answer, and Dean is more than little turned on by the posturing that isn't really posturing, because Cas has the means and motivation to substantiate it.

It's ridiculously unfair that Dean's being subjected to exploding star levels of hotness and badassery, right when even the thought of doing anything about it is enough to have him come in his pants like a teenager who's just touched a boob for the first time.

Dean's not dumb. He knows that it isn't incidental and he will 100% most assuredly be getting revenge on his fiancé for this little life-ruining stunt.

Cas fills in the blanks for them, “It can’t be because Crowley’s gone. He was a thorn in our collective sides - plus you’ll all be receiving a slice of a larger pie. More money means less problems, correct? So, then. Is it because you think I’ve lost my touch? That I’m incapable of making good on my promises like I’ve continued to do for the last fifteen years? Is that why I’m here wasting time that could otherwise be spent usefully? Is that why you’re threatening me--”

“Nobody here is threatening you, Castiel.” Naomi soothes.

And sweaty, bonerific mess or not, Dean can’t just sit here with his mouth shut, “All due respect Councilwoman--” ‘Cause Dean does still like her, it’s just he likes Cas a fuck of a lot more, even though it’s difficult to remember at times like this, where everybody is staring at him like a bug under a microscope and he’s got Cas’ come in his ass, “--but the DA over there did say -  _ ‘For your sake, you’d better be right’ _ . That certainly came across as a threat to me.”

There’s a sheen of admiration in Cas’ eyes and Dean basks in the warmth of it, managing a twitch of a smile in return. 

He’s still gonna make the bastard pay though. 

All eyes turn to the DA. She sighs, “It wasn’t a threat. Just a statement of fact.” She reaches into her bag at her feet under the table, pulls out a manilla folder, tosses it toward Cas, “It’s in your best interests to get a suspect in custody as soon as possible, because my office has received news that this rookie FBI agent - the same one we arranged to be sent away when he was a police officer last year - at your request, Castiel, it’s to be noted - is attempting to come back here in order to investigate the fires.”

Oh shit.

Without even looking in the file, Dean knows that it’s Henriksen. 

For the uninitiated, the DA explains, “An agent out of Houston apparently saw something in the detective and thought he would make a good agent. He’s been a suited and booted federal agent for six weeks now.”

Well,  _ shit. _

Cas is never gonna let Dean forget this. He's gonna be wearing this butt plug for the rest of his natural-born days, never again to know what it is to come. They’ll find his dead, bloated body, still with a hard-on, and when the coroner, scalpel in hand, goes to perform the autopsy, Dean’ll explode like an overfilled cream puff. 

_ God-fucking-dammit. _

  
  


***

  
  


A while back, in order to ‘expand Dean’s horizons’ (yeah, exactly), Sam downloaded a ‘word of the day’ app onto his phone. Dean receives a notification every morning, at 8am on the dot with the arbitrarily selected word of the day. Most mornings, he dismisses the bar at the top of the screen with a swipe of his finger, not even caring to look. Sometimes, he’ll catch sight of what the word is before he dismisses it, and very rarely, on days like today, he’ll see the word, get curious and click on the notification to read the definition.

Today’s word is unctuous. 

_ unctuous _

**uhngk** -choo- _ uhs _

adj. excessively smooth, suave, or smug.

It’s a fitting word. Though, perhaps a better one might be _ fuckhead _ . Or  _ no-good-bastard-who-won’t-let-me-come _ . 

_ Yeah. _

Dean can count on one hand the number of people he's allowed to drive his Baby over the years, with Cas becoming the latest addition because Dean physically  _ cannot  _ drive right now. Can't do much of anything other than stay absolutely still and not squirm in his seat. He's seen pornos where a guy/chick has an entire carrot or fist shoved up their ass and still goes about their business as usual. Dean wants to know -  _ fucking how?? _ He literally cannot concentrate on anything else, not even how weird it is that his fiancé is driving him to a pseudo-date with a man who attempted to woo him with a shipment of rare car parts. 

With Benny's help of course, the stupid prick. 

Benny was rather reluctant to talk to Cas and Dean at first; didn’t want to spill the beans about his boss, but they soon persuaded him with a couple of broken fingers. 

A pretty minor inconvenience compared to the one Dean is currently experiencing. He’s wishing they’d broken a few more of Benny’s bones. 

_ God, don’t think about the word ‘bone’.  _

So, verrrrry long and depressing story short, it turns out that Benny was recruited because he knows Dean. Yeah, that’s it. Seriously, hiring practices ain’t what they used to be.

After the gambling dens disappeared, Benny - who agonizingly informed Dean that once he’d handed him the divorce papers in the kitchen with Cas standing there, promptly returned to old habits - had nowhere to go. No job, no business, on the verge of losing his home.

If Cas hadn’t been on such a rampage yesterday after the big car-part reveal, Dean might’ve taken the time to hunt down a tiny violin and play it for Benny. Still, snapping his bones made a pretty decent sound - the trick is to go for where the finger meets the hand, rather than the knuckle joints - it certainly was music to Dean’s ears at any rate. 

So yeah. No job, no business, on the verge of losing his home,  _ fucking wah. _ But then, Nick found Benny drinking his sorrows away in a bar and they got to talking. 

Thankfully, Benny isn’t quite daft enough to believe that it was a coincidence this strange, rich man had taken an interest in him - and more importantly, his sexy af ex. Benny apparently knew from the get-go that he was hired to tell Nick everything about Dean and Cas, and also resume his role of Sword of fucking Damocles hanging over their heads. 

A role Benny enjoys a little too much and one he got his pinkie finger snapped for. 

Dean sighs, risks a glance across the car at Cas. He's concentrating on the road, but his jaw is tight and his knuckles are bleeding white around the steering wheel.

"Cas," Dean manages, sounding like he's on the verge of death, rather than just perpetually horny, "I'm sorry about Henriksen."

Cas doesn't say anything, but Dean can hear the  _ 'not as sorry as you're gonna be' _ anyway, and his traitorous dick twitches hopefully. 

(In fairness to it, it’s mostly settled down since this morning - which  _ thank Christ _ , or he’d have been fainting face first into plates of wedding cake samples - but there’s still this torturous undercurrent of anticipation which has heat curling low in his stomach).

The council meeting ended pretty swiftly after the Henriksen revelation and Cas has been driving them around from appointment to meeting to wedding-cake-tasting session, in a danger-tinged silence that Dean’s been too preoccupied to bring up until now. 

And they still haven’t decided which filling to go for; dark chocolate champagne or tiramisu.

It’s early evening, which for November means that it’s already dark, streetlights lit and highlighting Cas’ perfect bone structure under a silky glow.

Eventually, Cas says lowly, "I already knew."

What.

"Excuse me, what? 'cause I could've sworn that you just said--"

"--you think I didn't keep tabs on someone who was intent on locking you and your brother up?" Cas flips the left blinker, "You think that simply because you didn't want him killed that I was just going to let him go?"

Well,  _ yeah _ .

They ride on for another couple of blocks in silence, less tense now though. So Cas knew Henriksen was on the case? What the fuck does that even mean? Is he going to kill Henriksen? Why didn’t Cas tell him? Dean doesn’t ask though, because one disaster at a time and they’re almost at the coffee shop where Dean told Benny to let Nick know he’d be. 

Except, are they nearly there? ‘Cause this seems to be taking forever. 

Dean glances out the windshield. Frowns. This isn't the way to the coffee shop they've agreed to meet up at, and  _ oh _ .

Oh no.

"Cas, you absolute fuck."

Cas’ solemn expression melts away and he smirks at Dean, devious and handsome, as the Impala rocks over the first speed bump and the plug jolts against Dean's prostate. "If you ruin my car's suspension--" another bump and Dean's got tears in his eyes already, "-- Jeez-uss,  _ fuck _ . I'll kill you in your fucking sleep."

Cas hums, dark eyes on Dean, "You're right. Maybe I should go slower." 

The amalgam of swear words that Dean lets out would make George Carlin proud.

  
  


***

  
  


The coffee shop comes up on them not a jarring, prostate-nudging, dick-hardening moment too soon. Dean’s an absolute mess - the human embodiment of a shambles - and anybody who even spares him a passing glance will know that he’s a man on the verge of unraveling. 

“I know what you’re doing, y’know,” Dean rasps as Cas cuts the engine. They sit there in the parking lot, listening to the ping of the cooling engine, with Dean trying to get a hand(le) on his horniness. 

“Enlighten me,” Cas says, thoroughly amused, turning to face Dean, bringing his arm up along the backrest of the bench seat.

“You want me to go in there looking like you’ve just staked your claim, you proprietorial asshole.”

Dean would be lying if he said that he didn’t find it hot. Sure, it can get a little annoying and socially inappropriate, but knowing that he’s important enough to Cas for him to get all growly and bitey and stay-the-fuck-away-from-my-Dean-y mostly just turns Dean the hell on. 

Knowing that he’s desired that badly by somebody like Cas? Yeah. There’s nothing quite like it.

But unfortunately, ‘just-fucked’ is not a look he really wanted to be sporting when he meets a man they know next to nothing about, and who may or may not also be harboring a pretty intense crush on Dean himself. 

This whole thing smacks of  _ Single White Female _ and that is totally not how Dean wants this to go down.

Ugh. Poor choice of words, considering his  _ pre-dick-ament _ .

Cas neither confirms nor denies Dean’s accusation, instead he flashes Dean a brilliant smile and exits the Impala. 

With an eye roll and a sigh, Dean follows suit. 

Cas comes around to his side, pressing him up against the passenger door and kisses him thoroughly, like Dean's going to war, rather than to drink an overpriced espresso. 

There’s a few moments of wonderfully amateur groping against the Impala and Cas’ hands are everywhere, in Dean’s hair, his chest, his back, sneaking under the waistband of his suit pants and boxers, palming his ass. 

When they break apart for air, Dean reminds Cas, "You can't come inside."

"Already did," Cas murmurs, tapping a fingertip against the base of the plug between Dean’s cheeks, and Dean's heart flutters and his pulse spikes. It's not like he's got a hope of forgetting and fuck if that ain't the entire point, the possessive bastard.

"You're hilarious, Cas."

Free hand sliding up Dean’s chest, fingers rounding the curve of his throat, curling against the back of Dean’s neck, Cas leans in so that their foreheads are touching, says, "Remember what we talked about. Don't give him an inch. And if you need anything, I'll be right here waiting." 

Goddammit, now Dean’s gonna have that crappy Richard Marx song stuck in his head all evening. 

“What if I need to come?" Because he's not sure if he's mentioned it, but he really really does.

A corner of Cas’ mouth turns up in a smile, "Then I'll be out here. As soon as you’re done, we’re going home.”

Dean doesn’t point out that he’s been  _ done _ for most of the day, instead he teases, "What happens if I can't wait that long?" And then ‘cause he needs Cas to unravel with him, always wanting to push and push until Cas snaps, he adds, "I'm sure Nick wou--"

The grip on his neck and ass tightens, "If he even  _ thinks _ about touching you I'll cut his hands off." 

It's not a threat, it's a promise.

"Good to know," Dean murmurs, pressing a kiss to Cas' lips. "I'll be back soon. Don't go doing anything crazy."

Cas gives him the eyebrow as he extricates his hands from Dean’s body, "Like…?"

Benny is getting out of his car a few empty spaces away and Dean wonders how he managed to drive here with the taped-up fingers he can see even from this distance.

“Oh, I dunno Cas. Like shooting Benny in a coffee shop parking lot. In front of witnesses.”

Though in fairness, the place is pretty empty. It’s one of the many reasons they picked it.

Cas tsks, “What do you take me for? I’d at least wait until he was in his car.”

“And then pop up in the backseat like an urban legend? Definitely a tired trope, Cas. I’m sure you’d bring it up to date in a new and exciting way, but it wouldn’t make up for the lack of originality.”

Cas narrows his eyes, but Dean can tell he’s fighting a smile, “We can always take the same road back home you know,” He threatens, “In fact, I think there’s a couple of residential areas and schools with speed bumps that wouldn’t involve us going out of our way at all. I’ll check the GPS.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“Mmmhmm, an _ original _ asshole, though."

Dean dives in for one final kiss, open-mouthed but relatively chaste. "You know you're gonna pay for this, don't ya, Cas."

Cas’ eyes practically sparkle, "I look forward to it."

  
  
  
  


***

  
  


The coffee shop is entirely empty, save for one table near the back. He casts a quick smile at the barista behind the counter on his way over. 

“Dean,” Nick smiles, gestures at the seat opposite him which is mercifully facing away from the window. At least he can’t get distracted by Cas and all his Cas-ness. As if the come and plug in his ass isn’t a big enough distraction in and of itself.

Dean sits down gingerly, trying to keep his expression blank. Judging by Nick’s inquisitive frown, it’s not entirely successful. Thankfully though, he doesn’t comment.

There are two coffees on the table separating them. The one directly in front of Nick is a foofy affair, practically a load of sugar in a cup. The one in front of Dean is black, just how he drinks it.

_ Fucking Benny. _

“Why am I here?” Dean asks tightly, keen to get this shitshow on the road. 

“Already with the existentialism? I thought that could wait until after the coffee.”

Dean ignores the attempt at humor, “You’re wasting my time, and if you went to all this trouble - hiring my ex, sourcing those car parts - then you know how valuable it is.”

“Yes,” Nick concedes with an indecipherable look, “You and your time are very valuable indeed.”

“Okay,” Dean holds up a palm, “Just so you know, that sounded  _ super _ creepy and that’s on top of the already pretty crunchy creep factor you’ve racked up.” He raps his knuckles on the table, determined not to let the wheels come off of whatever  _ this  _ is, “Let’s try this again. Why are  _ you  _ here?”

Nick almost pouts, "I'm here because nature abhors a vacuum. And you and your partner killing off Crowley? Well, that created a pretty big vacuum."

“We’re taking care of it.” Dean says. 

“I’m sure you are, but you’re both smart enough to know that there would be contenders to the throne.”

Yeah. Of course, but this is not the way they’d envisaged it going down.

“So what do you want?”

Nick’s eyes linger tellingly on Dean’s mouth. Dean’s stomach twists.

“Well, before we get started, I suppose it would be too much to ask that you and your  _ talents  _ change sides? Come to me and I’ll make it worth your while. There are plenty more car parts where they came from.”

Wow. So Dean’s the  _ Girl All the Bad Guys Want, _ huh.

“I’ll pass, thanks. Pretty happy with the violent, unhinged gangster I’ve got. I’m not in the market for another.”

Nick strokes his chin as he considers Dean. “No, I figured as much. Still, those who don’t ask don’t get. And getting  _ you _ …” he trails off, eyes on Dean making him feel dirtier than a glory hole at a biker bar, “...well that would’ve been enough to have me back off.”

Jesus Christ. Is this guy for real? He’s threatening war with Cas, but would call it off if Dean dropped to his knees and/or tortured some people?

_ Where’s the weird awkward guy from yesterday? _

“So other than me ass up and performing daily torture on your enemies, what do you want?”

Nick smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes, “What I told Benny. I want to break bread with you, figure things out. I’m a businessman first and foremost and I know Castiel is as well. If I can do this without bloodshed then I’d much prefer it.”

_ Presumptuous, much? _

“Well, then why is it just me sitting here? Why not Cas as well? He’s the boss, I’m simply along for the ride.”

“Hmm, how do I put this delicately?” Nick sips his coffee, pretends to pick out his words carefully, “Since meeting you, Castiel’s reputation has...changed somewhat.”

Seeing the look on Dean’s face, Nick hastens to clarify, “It’s not a bad thing. He’s just a little more reactionary now than he used to be. Which, in a way, has let everyone else know that he is actually human. We had been beginning to wonder.”

_ Everyone? There some kind of monthly newsletter? _

“Get to the point.”

“Right,” Nick ducks his head, “Of course. The point is that he’s not as equitable and even-keeled as he used to be, so I had to wonder, what’s the best way to go about this? If I don’t want things to get nasty, how do I appeal to his human side? Why that’d be through the love of his life - you. And that’s why you’re sitting here without him. Of course, hearing about someone and actually meeting them are two entirely different things; I wasn’t prepared for how beautiful you are in person. I won’t lie, that threw me for a loop yesterday. And the things I’ve heard you can do with those hands…”

_ Oh fuck. _

Something tightens in Dean’s chest. 

Cas is going to  _ lose his shit _ . 

“So you think hitting on ‘the love of his life’ is going to make him amenable to anything you have to say? 

“Admittedly, that wasn’t part of the plan. I was just going to send Benny with the car parts - a surefire way of grabbing your attention and securing a meeting. The plan was to give you the two options and let you talk Castiel into doing the sensible thing - it’s well known that you’re the only one he listens to anymore.” He sighs, “But like I said, you’re quite something else and I couldn’t help myself. I had to give you the opportunity to jump ship and save your sweetheart that way. I’m a sucker for a romantic sacrifice.”

_ Uhuh. _

"So what you're saying is that we have three options," Dean checks them off on his hand, "Number one, I leave Cas and come ‘work’ for you. Number two, I persuade Cas to listen to reason. Or number three, all-out war. That about cover it?"

_ War it is. _

At Nick’s nod, Dean says, “We both know number one ain’t an option. Number two? Dude, I’m not sure where you heard all this shit about him giving a fuck about my opinion, but you didn’t need to go through this whole rigmarole. Cas is perfectly reasonable--”

Nick’s brows hit his hairline as something catches his eye outside. 

“-- and reactionary? I honestly don’t know what you mean. Cas is pretty even-tempered except when someone pisses him off--”

Nick’s eyes track movement from what Dean assumes is one corner of the lot to the other.

“-- Then I guess he can be a bit extra, sure --”

“-- Dean,” Nick interjects, still staring at something over Dean’s shoulder, “I think you’re needed outside.”

Huh.

“The fuck?” Dean twists to look, winces when the plug drags deliciously against his insides. “Oh, Jesus.”

He’s up and out of his seat in double time, rushing to the door, thanking his lucky stars that it’s late enough that this place isn’t rammed like it usually is. He rips open the door, the little jingle of the bell frantically signaling his exit.

“Cas!”

Cas doesn’t pause, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even spare Dean a glance as he arcs the Louisville slugger down onto the roof of Benny’s car, denting the frame in a way that Dean knows from both personal and professional experience is gonna cost a bomb to fix.

_ Don’t think fixing it is gonna be an issue. _

Cas doesn’t let up for a moment, already gearing up for another swing, putting out the driver’s side window with an ease borne of being deadly with literally any object - weapon or not.

It’s pretty fucking magnificent and Dean’s transfixed by the bunching of his muscles, the smooth, almost effortless way he keeps going, nothing but rage and spite fueling him, every move made with purpose. 

Dean folds his arms across his chest, settles in to watch. The parking lot is empty so there shouldn’t be anybody busy calling the cops right now. 

Benny appears at Dean’s side, frantic. “Aren’t you gonna do anythin’?”

Dean considers it, shrugs, “Sure.” He reaches into his pocket for his folding knife, “Hey Cas!” He waits until his fiancé turns around and then he tosses him the blade, which Cas catches one-handed, “For the tires.”

Cas grins, bright and handsome as he rests the bat on the dented roof of the car, so he can have some fun with his new weapon. And yeah, Dean knows it’s sacrosanct that you don’t fuck with a man’s wheels, but in the words of the Cell Block Tango gals, _ ‘he had it coming’. _

“Jesus, Dean.” Benny mutters, disbelieving. 

“It’s either them--” He jerks his chin in the direction of the rear left tire that Cas is currently slicing through with savage, yet efficient, glee, “Or you.”

Benny blows out a harsh breath, “He’s a goddamn psychopath.”

_ What clued you in, Benny? Was it when he shot you? Beat you up? Broke your fingers? _

Dean sighs dreamily, “Yeahhhh, and he looks so  _ good _ in a tux.”

“I’m callin’ the cops,” Benny reaches for his phone and as soon as it’s in his good hand, Dean snatches it away, throws it to the ground, and cracks the screen beyond repair under his boot. 

Last thing they need after this morning is another lecture from the ‘judicial system’.

“Nah, you’re not. What did you say to him? ‘Cause this--” he gestures to encompass the destructive force of nature that is Cas, who - done with the knife and all four tires - is now taking out his rage on the hood, “--didn’t just come out of nowhere.”

“Nothin’,” Benny says, defensive, and Dean takes a moment to wonder if he was ever _ truly _ fooled by Benny’s poker face, ‘cause he is a  _ shit  _ liar.

“Alright,” Dean says, as a wing mirror goes flying across the lot, not quite a home run, “I guess we’ll just stand here and watch while he goes all Carrie Underwood on your car then. He’ll probably set fire to it when he’s done.” Dean leans in sideways, and like he’s sharing a secret, whispers, “He’s a bit of a pyromaniac.”

Benny’s dumbfounded, rooted to the spot, “This is insane.”

“Agreed.” Dean concedes, “Shame. It was a nice car too.”

When Benny doesn’t deign to say anything else, Dean runs out of (already limited) patience and grabs for his broken fingers. His ex lets out a yelp of pain that gets lost to the commotion Cas is creating. 

Through gritted teeth, Dean tries again, “What did you say to him, Benny?”

Benny huffs and puffs for a moment before he admits in a quiet voice, “I might have mentioned that you deserve better than him.”

Eh, pretty lame, not usually enough to set Cas off. 

Sensing that’s not the entirety of it, Dean squeezes harder, feeling the bones in Benny’s fingers grind together. “Anything else?”

“Dean,” Benny grates out, obviously in a ridiculous amount of pain, just letting Dean hurt him and Dean wishes he’d fight back for fuck’s sake, hit him. Do  _ something _ to him. He has no problem hurting Cas, why not Dean too? “Cher, please.”

“Tell me or I’ll break the rest of them.”

Benny heaves a shuddery breath, rushes out, “And then I might have insinuated a few things about your character. Mainly that you’re probably gettin’ on your knees for Nick in the bathroom.”

Uhuh.

A mild reaction then, all things considered. 

Cas uses the knob of the bat to put the rear window through. His dress shoes crunch over glass as he strides around the other side of the car, shoots Dean a flirty, roguish wink, and then knocks out a tail light. 

_ Cas, you gorgeous bastard. _

“Dean,” Benny gasps, “Please.”

Disgusted, Dean flings Benny’s hand away, and his ex cradles it to his chest, “A new low even for you, Benny. Any particular reason you felt the need to rile him up?”

“You mean other than the fact that I can’t stand the sight of him?” At Dean’s responding growl, Benny sighs, “Nick asked me to. Wanted to test his reaction.”

_ Stupid asshole. _

“And if he’d shot you? I really hope that your worker’s comp would pay out.”

Benny blanches.

“You’re a fucking idiot.” Dean tells his ex as Cas stalks over, all business and bruises. There’s murder in his eyes, a baseball bat in his hand, and it doesn’t take Carl Gauss to put two and two together and come up with multiple skull fractures.

“Dean--” Benny says, like Dean’s gonna help him as opposed to stepping out of the line of fire, which is exactly what he does, performing a sweeping glance of the lot to check they’re still alone. 

Property damage in front of an audience is one thing, but aggravated assault would be a different kind of stupid entirely.

Luckily, they’re the only ones still here - aside from Nick and the barista in the coffee shop, who hopefully, please Jesus-Annapurna-Dionysus-Colonel-fucking-Sanders isn’t bearing witness - so Dean doesn’t intervene when Cas closes in on Benny.

Without slowing down, Cas swings the bat low, catching Benny behind the knee and sending him to the asphalt. Once there, Cas keeps the momentum going, bringing the weapon down, connecting with Benny’s torso in a dull, fleshy thud, again and again. Benny curls in on himself, and brings his arm up so that the heel of his palm is covering his ear, his forearm held tight to his head, elbow pointing forward.

If Cas keeps going, he’s gonna puncture one of Benny’s organs or something, and while it might be nice to get rid of his nuisance ex once and for all, Dean flat out refuses to stuff Benny’s bloodied body in his car, and since Cas totaled the only other vehicle in the lot...

Yeah, there’s no way.

“Cas. Stop.”

With one final blow to the ribs, chest heaving and standing over Benny like an avenging angel, Cas shoves the end cap of the slugger in Benny’s face. “This was your final warning. Next time I see you, I’ll fucking kill you.”

_ Jesus. _

Benny groans feebly in response, coughs out a mouthful of blood onto the ground. Dean turns to Cas, only mildly shaking from the cold, or adrenaline, or that withheld orgasm, who knows - could be all three, “What happened to being an original asshole, huh? ‘Cause that beat down was so old school that Grandmaster Flash was the principal.”

Cas tilts his head, stares down at Benny with dispassionate eyes, “What can I say? It’s a classic for a reason.”

  
  
  


***

The drive home is quiet and Cas pushes one of Dean’s classic rock tapes into the deck, fingers tapping the steering wheel in time with the beat of  _ (Don’t Fear) The Reaper. _

  
  


***

  
  


Dean’s flossing idly, daydreaming wholeheartedly, when Cas’ voice drifts in from the balcony, “Was he watching?”

In the middle of a pretty vivid fantasy involving the removal of the plug still wedged up his ass, Dean blurts out a confused, “Wuh?” He listens for a response, but when he doesn’t get one, rolls his eyes and strides out of the ensuite bathroom, piece of floss wrapped around his fingers, “What?”

Cas is sitting with his bare feet up on the table, the stainless steel balcony heat lamp casting his face into shadow. He’s wearing nothing but the sweatpants Dean bought him for his birthday, “Nick. Did he see me destroying the car?”

“Uh yeah. He seemed pretty damn interested actually…” At Cas’ satisfied expression, Dean approaches, in a similar state of undress, skin already pebbling from the chill in the air, “Wait. Was this you making some kind of move?”

“I’m always making some kind of move, Dean.” Cas replies,  _ like duh, _ “It’s what’s allowed me to stay at the top of the game for as long as I have.”

Dean stays silent waiting for Cas to elaborate. Which he does eventually, “There are only a handful of reasons why someone like Nick would be so keen to secure a meeting with you without my attendance. The first is that he’s trying to drive a wedge between us. Now, that might work for a pair who are interested in more money or prestige, not so much for us. The second is that he wants to recruit you. This is definitely more plausible, but it’s a big risk. The third is that he is expecting our reputation to proceed us and he thinks that I’ll be a loose cannon when it comes to you. His approaching you at the bake sale, the hiring of your ex of all people to deliver not only the car parts but also a message, wooing you with expensive things, meeting only with you - he’s trying to get a reaction out of me. So I gave him one.” 

_ Oh did you now. _

Dean digests this information, anger rising thick and steady, “And there’s no way you could’ve let me in on your Machiavellian bullshit, huh? I thought we were supposed to be partners --” Cas opens his mouth to defend himself, but Dean’s cranky as fuck and not interested in allowing Cas the chance to plead his case. This is a kangaroo court and Dean is motherfucking Skippy, “--You sent me in there blind, even though you knew? You fucking  _ knew _ ?”

“Your reaction had to be real,” Cas explains, an utterly shit attempt at conciliation. At Dean’s lack of response, he drops his feet down from the table and pushes himself out of the chair in one, smooth, fluid move. His grace and poise is the nail in the coffin for the tatters of Dean’s patience. He’s been a fucking mess all day and the one time he thought Cas might have been on the same certifiable page, it was a strategic move? “Let me guess,” Cas continues as if Dean isn’t on the verge of strangling him with dental floss, “He not-so-subtly insinuated that he knew how important you are to me and therefore us not playing nice would ultimately result in something horrific happening to you.”

Epitaphs are tricky things. On the one hand, honoring the deceased and/or their wishes should be at the forefront of any considerations. On the other? Well, let’s put it like this, Cas’ will simply read: 

‘Here lies Castiel, 

Put his poor Dean through hell, 

Until one day, 

Dean’s patience gave, 

And he sent Cas there himself.’

Or. Even better:

‘Here lies Cas,

He gave Dean hell,

But still, an awful loss.

He went too far,

His fate was sealed,

With a length of dental floss.’

He’s kinda proud of that second one, actually. 

“Not in so many words,” Dean confirms, pondering if floss is actually strong enough to garotte, “But yeah.” And then ‘cause they’re both bound to each other for better or fucking worse, even before marriage, Dean adds, “He also tried to persuade me to leave you for him, in case you give a fuck. That’s what was behind door number three. So apparently I’m just worth the risk, right?”

Cas’ entire posture changes, expression darkening, jaw clenching, “What?”

“Yeah,” Dean laughs, but it’s a hollow, bitter sound. “Turns out you’re not the only one interested in my perky nipples and peach of an ass.”

Of course, it has occurred to Dean that theoretically, he’s playing right into Nick’s hands by telling Cas this. If Cas was half as explosive as Nick seems to think he is, then this would certainly send him past the tipping point. Luckily for Nick, and probably sensibly for them, Cas isn’t. 

He’s just playing a  _ part _ , apparently. 

Despite it going against their interests, Dean really wishes Cas hadn’t been faking the whole thing. Not least because if the situation was reversed? Dean would annihilate anybody who tried to take Cas away from him. 

_ Already have. _

Cas stares at nothing for a long moment, factoring this new information into his plans. When he looks up again, there’s a dangerous glint in his eye that has Dean’s dick twitching optimistically, but then it’s gone again and Dean’s left with a sour sense of disappointment, “Are you okay?”

Dean spins away, muttering petulantly, “Like you give a shit.”

“Dean.”

Dean ignores him as he stalks back into the bathroom, silently seething. Aren’t they supposed to be past all this by now? The miscommunication or lack of it entirely? They’re getting married in a few months for fuck’s sake. Surely Dean shouldn’t still be on the backfoot when it comes to serious plays like this? Surely Dean shouldn’t still be questioning Cas’ feelings for him?

Yeah, okay, so they’re getting married and splitting everything down the middle, yadda yadda; Cas must trust and care about him at least a little. But in his more insecure moments, Dean wonders if it’s just another business transaction for Cas. A way of strengthening his hold on the city whilst also getting laid. 

Cas isn’t big into romance, or PDAs, or  _ communicating _ , it’s fine. Dean gets it, knew it going in, but sometimes he wishes Cas was at least a  _ tiny bit _ more open in his affections. 

And a  _ lot _ less likely to use him as some kind of unwitting tool. 

_ ‘Unwitting Tool’ _ \- that’s what Dean’s epitaph will say. 

“ _ Dean. _ ”

Cas being a possessive ass is pretty much the only gauge Dean has for Cas’ feelings about him, and now the asshole is stacking that deck too. 

Dean throws the piece of floss away in a huff. Or tries to. It just gets tangled around his fingers and he ends up flapping ineffectually for a long few seconds. It ruins the effect somewhat. Still, he’s nothing if not a stubborn bastard, so he demands of Cas - who’s now occupying the bathroom doorway, those sweats resting dangerously and distractingly low on tattooed hips, “How do you know?”

“You won’t like it.”

_ Quelle sur-fucking-prise.  _

“Oh  _ yeah _ , because I’ve been _ loving _ it so far. Just stick a clown nose on me and call me Ronald McDonald.”

Cas turns his attention to their high ceiling like he does whenever he’s asking for a non-existent God to give him strength. Not receiving any divination, Cas has to rely on mere mortal methods of communicating, “It was Raphael. We were right not to trust him. He’s been disseminating information about the organization, about  _ us. _ ”

That makes an unfortunate amount of sense. How Nick even knew to recruit Benny in the first place. And anything Raphael couldn’t tell Nick about Cas and Dean, Benny could.

What doesn’t make sense, however, is Cas’ decision to keep this knowledge to himself, “How long have you known all this?”

“Dean.”

“Don’t  _ ‘Dean’ _ me, you dick. How long?”

Cas tilts his head, narrows his eyes, and it’s a warning as he responds gruffly, "I didn't want you to worry if it all came to nothing--"

Nope. Nuh-uh. 

" _ How. Long. _ "

Cas sighs like he’s the one who’s done.  _ Done for _ , maybe if Dean gets his way, “Just in the last week or so. Michael’s been tailing Raphael, watching him meet up with some underlings from what looks like the Sicilian Mafia. It would seem the local branch has a new boss.”

_ Oh, fan-fucking-tastic. _

“Did you know who he was yesterday at the bake sale?”

“Not for definite, but I had an idea.”

“You had a--  _ God _ ,” Dean chokes out. “You’re a fucking dick.” He shoulders past Cas, into their bedroom, rips back the covers on their bed. Like fuck is he finding one of their spare rooms and sleeping there for the night. Cas is the one in the wrong, he can fuck off.

“Yes,” Cas says, coming around the side of the bed to stand just out of fist-swinging range. Sensible, yet unfortunate for Dean, “But forewarned is forearmed and this way we can control the way Nick sees us. Play into it in order to manufacture his expectations. I need him to think that I’m completely reckless when it comes to my emotions surrounding you, and judging by the game he’s played so far, it’s working. If he thinks you’re my weakness to the point that I make foolish decisions then he’s much more likely to --”

It’s stupid, but also a major fucking sore point, “ _ Weakness _ ? Did you really just say that to me? I’m a  _ weakness _ ? Yeah, I’ll say, ‘cause that’s exactly how you’re treating me. Like I’m just another fucking bargaining chip - not even worth bringing into the loop! Jesus Christ, Cas!”

Cas catches him by the upper arm, fingertips digging in painfully, eyes ablaze and incendiary, “Listen to me for once in your life, you infuriating ass! You’re not a bargaining chip at all and if you stopped your self-righteous, self-pitying bitching for thirty seconds, you’d see what I’m saying!”

_ Well. _

Dean makes an impatient ‘go on’ gesture with his hand. He can’t trust his voice right now.

Unusually, Cas’ expression is completely open, no pretense, just pure emotion. And that emotion is… indecisiveness. Like he’s torn between punching or fucking Dean. 

The feeling’s mutual.

“You’re not a bargaining chip,” Cas says slow and deliberate, expression shifting into something less obvious, “If anything, you’re bait.”

What.

For a second, Dean thinks he’s had an aneurysm, because it sounds an awful lot like his fiancé just told him that he’s bait with an air of triumph, like somehow bait is an upgrade from bargaining chip. And that can’t be right. 

Not if Cas wants to live to see tomorrow.

“Bait?” Dean repeats, and it’s a testament to how monumentally pissed off he is that he doesn’t even think about making a tackle joke. “So you’re going to put me in danger in order to win some cosmic pissing competition? Hard fucking pass fuck you very much!”

“Dean,” Cas growls and Dean very nearly shrinks back a little at the menacing vehemence in his voice, but at the last minute remembers that Cas can go fuck himself, “I would  _ never _ put you in danger. That’s the whole point - you  _ are  _ the danger. That’s why you’re the bait. Understand?”

Sure, Dean understands. Dean understands that his fiancé is a fucking jackass who doesn’t actually care about him beyond--

Cas shakes him and Dean grabs at his bare shoulder, the ink shifting under his fingers as Cas’ muscles flex, “Stop that. You know how important you are to me--” Dean opens his mouth to protest, but Cas shakes him again, like Dean’s a hysterical woman. Any moment now the gynecological stirrups are gonna come out, “--Don’t you  _ dare _ interrupt me. There’s only one other living person I’ve ever said the words ‘I love you’ to and that’s my daughter, so if you think that I don’t want to slash the throat of pretty much everyone who’s ever so much as looked at you, then you’re very much mistaken. You have no idea how much I want to carve out his heart for even thinking those things he said to you today, but we need to play the long con here. His time will come, I assure you of that.”

Oh.

Dean can practically feel the anger leaving him like an exhale after holding a long breath.

Overreaction? Dean? Never. 

Shitty thing is that Cas is right. About it all. Benny told Dean outside the coffee shop that Nick had asked him to rile Cas up, to gauge his reaction to insinuations about Dean. Dude is presumably going by what Benny and Raphael have seen of Cas’ responses to people hurting/insulting Dean - and it’s not exactly pretty. 

Just off the top of Dean’s head and in no particular order, there’s: Malachi, Benny, Crowley, and some drug dealer who made a crude joke about Dean’s ass the other week. Only half of them are still topside and for one of them, it’s the last of his nine lives.

And just ‘cause Cas knew Nick wanted a reaction, it doesn’t mean it wasn’t genuine, right? All it means is that - knowing Nick was waiting for it - Cas leaned fully into his possessive streak, and enjoyed the hell outta himself in the process. 

Dean relaxes at the realization. Sure, this crazy, possessive shit is destructive, dangerous, and stupid as hell, but it’s so damn hot, that even from the beginning, Dean’s been perfecting the art of dragging a reaction outta the usually pretty level-headed gangster.

_ Jeez. _

They’re gonna have to get better at this communication thing. 

Even as he thinks it though, Dean knows he’s the biggest hypocrite going, because instead of addressing the gooey feelings Cas’ declaration invokes, he quips, “You've been practicing your wedding vows, huh Cas?”

Sensing he’s mostly off the hook, Cas’ lips twitch against a smile, “No, my wedding vows will be much more x-rated than that. I’m actually planning an E.E Cummings style ode to your mouth. Something to really get pulses racing in the front row.”

_ Christ. _

Dean feels his cheeks heat, despite himself, “You’re still an asshole.” He shoves Cas in the chest, sending him sprawling backward diagonally onto their bed. Dean straddles his thighs, a knee either side. The butt plug that he’d blissfully forgotten about for the duration of their argument, shifts inside him, reminding him of its presence and he squeaks. 

“Mmmhmm.” Cas loops an arm around Dean's waist, dragging him in closer until their bodies are flush and Dean’s propped up over Cas on his elbows, “I should’ve told you about Raphael and Nick and for that I’m sorry. I just -- This is all new to me too - having somebody shouldering the burden alongside me - and old habits die hard. I won't make the same mistake again. I promise.”

That’s all Dean can ask for, really. 

Bracing his weight on one forearm, Dean rubs his thumb into the dip of Cas’ throat, smoothing over the lines of ink under his skin, “So you didn’t enjoy smashing up Benny or his car, like at all? That was all business, yeah?”

Cas slants him a smirk as he seizes Dean’s hand, “I didn’t say that.” He brings Dean’s wrist up to his mouth, kisses the flutter of his pulse, "It's been a stressful day. I enjoyed venting some… frustration.”

Dean nearly chokes on his indignation, "It's been stressful and frustrating for  _ you _ ?"

Completely serious, Cas’ eyes take on a fierce gleam, and his grip tightens around Dean’s waist, tongue darting out to wet his lips, "You have no idea how you look do you? All plugged up with me inside? It took most of my restraint not to fuck you at the cake shop. We’re getting Tiramisu by the way.”

Heat pools in Dean’s gut. His hard dick nudges hopefully at Cas’ through their sweatpants, “Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Cas confirms, hand in Dean’s hair, pulling him down into a kiss that’s mostly tongue, “That chocolate champagne abomination was inedible.”

Asshole.

Dean goes to push himself up and away, but Cas catches him, holds him still. “Yes. I nearly choked on the strawberries and cream slice when you stretched over me to reach for a clean fork.”

_ God _ .

“Tell me you want me, Cas.”

Cas’ hand smooths down Dean’s spine, shoving at the loose waistband of his sweats, pushing them down around his thighs, Dean’s painfully hard, slut-red dick springing free. Dean kicks the pants off the rest of the way, as Cas tells him with agonizing sincerity, “I always want you, Dean.” He finds the base of the plug, works it back and forth, and Dean tucks his face into Cas’ neck, breaths coming fast and rough.

“Cas,” He whines, clenching around nothing when the plug slips free and gets tossed somewhere. After a day of feeling oddly full, it’s weird as fuck without it, but then Cas is shoving his own sweatpants down and lining himself up and nudging his dick in, pushing incremental inches up inside Dean with each urgent swivel of his hips. Fucking in a filthy-hot grind through his own come, Cas groans; a dirty, primal thing, and Dean responds with a moan of his own when Cas bottoms out inside him. 

“Your turn,” Cas grunts, one hand mauling bruises into Dean’s hip, the other curved around the back of Dean’s head, sliding to his jaw. Cas presses his thumb down in the center of Dean’s bottom lip, “Tell me what you were thinking when Nick was daydreaming about this mouth that’s mine.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Pretty sure you weren’t thinking about him,” Cas teases on an airless breath as he bucks up, thighs slapping against Dean’s ass. 

“Fuck--” Dean rides the motion of Cas’ next thrust, slip-slide of their sweat-slick bodies as they move together, “You, I was thinking about you inside me.” Cas’ palm fits to the smooth muscle of Dean’s ass, heels planted in the mattress, giving him purchase to nail Dean on every in and out like he wants to. It has Dean collapsing against Cas’ solid chest, just letting Cas fuck him, barely even a participant, fists clenched in the sheets either side of the splay of Cas’ hair. Pressed this close together, the length of Dean’s trapped dick slides through a mix of precome and sweat with every upward drive of Cas’ hips, red crown skidding against Cas’ firm stomach. The exquisite friction finally  _ finally  _ after all this time, has Dean delirious, feverish with want for the man beneath him, barely able to form words. 

“I was--oh,” Dean gasps when Cas skewers him on a particularly brutal thrust that has the head of his dick slamming against Dean’s oversensitized sweet spot, “Fuck -- I was sitting there with your rival, who’s fantasizing about fucking me--”

Cas growls at that, rocking forward, hitching in and out hard and fast, hand on Dean’s ass clutching and squeezing, “--but all I could think about was how you feel, how your come feels plugged up inside me. How  _ good _ it always is with you, how--”

Cas curses, crushes his mouth to Dean’s, and his next handful of thrusts are jagged, devoid of rhythm, just pure desperation. Once he scrounges up enough coordination to get a hand around Dean’s cock between their bodies, that’s pretty much  _ all she fucking wrote _ for either of them.

With intense, white-hot, toe-curling pleasure, Dean comes, _finally,_ _fucking finally,_ and he swears that the end of Beethoven's Ode to Joy is playing on a loop in his brain as he spurts between their stomachs, wet and messy, but oh-so goddamn glorious. Cas follows him right over into delicious oblivion, voice strained, head thrown back as he empties himself inside Dean for the second time today.

_ Holy shit. _

Dean can already feel the gross trickle of come sliding down his thigh, catching in the fine hairs, as he rolls off Cas, lays next to him on their oversized bed, panting and sweaty-limbed. 

Waiting for his heart to slow its frantic thumping against his ribcage, sated and riding high on endorphins, Dean has a minor revelation. 

Apparently Cas’ dick is its own religious experience.

He’d already known that he was gonna make Cas pay for today, but now? Now he knows exactly how. It’s perhaps the mother of all bad ideas, but excitement bubbles in his chest at the mere thought of it.

It’s all about the long con, right? Cas’ words. So Dean is literally going to play the _unctuous_ fucker at his own game. 

Now all he has to do is figure out a way to make Cas complicit in his own demise. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been the absolute worst. Ugh. Plot with some fluff and a sprinkling of porn.

Dean’s learned a lot from Cas. 

How to shoot a gun, how to break fingers, how to run a criminal organization. But perhaps the most important thing he’s learned?

That the trick to playing the long con is all about  _ timing _ . 

"Maybe we should stop having sex until after the wedding," is what Dean tries to say, but there's several inches of cock stuffed in his mouth, so what comes out is actually "huyhe he huh hoh haan heh huhuuh haaahur huh heh heh."

Cas is girthy, and it's not easy to make a lot of sense around him at the best of times, let alone when Dean's on his knees, trying to make him come down his throat in between meetings.

Dean pulls off with an aching jaw, thin string of saliva connecting his mouth to Cas' dick for a heartbeat longer. He jacks Cas' cock, smearing the spit up and down the length as Cas stares down at him, eyes hooded and ruinous, breathing shallow. 

"I said--"

"I heard you," Cas hisses when Dean pushes his thumb against the thick vein on the underside of his cock, velvet over steel and blood-hot.

"And?"

"And you know full well that my favorite thing about your blow jobs is that for a short period of time you can't talk, so why are you intent on not only ruining a good thing, but also making me consider having you committed?"

_ That’s a lotta words for someone who should be close to incoherency. _

Dean sucks the crown of Cas' dick past his lips, tonguing the slit before he pulls away again with a slick pop. 

"Ass. So that's a no then?" He licks over the frenulum, looks up at Cas through his thick eyelashes in a way that drives his fiancé crazy.

"Dean," Cas growls, hands coming to cradle the back of Dean's skull, not-so-subtly demanding that Dean stop fucking about and suck his cock properly. 

Yeahhh, his silence  _ really _ isn’t Cas’ favorite thing about Dean’s blow jobs.

Dean obliges, but only because he wants to make Cas come apart in his mouth, loves how powerful it makes him feel. He takes Cas back in, tongue sliding along the underside, relishing the feel of the spongy head bumping into his soft palate, nudging toward his throat; the strangled groan Cas lets out when Dean swallows around him making Dean’s own cock jerk in his jeans. 

He taps Cas' muscular thigh with two fingers, letting him know it's okay and there's barely a heartbeat before Cas is drawing back, pulling out most of the way, and then he snaps his hips forward, thrusting in, hitching in and out in an artless rhythm, forcing more and more of himself down Dean’s throat on each pass. His fingers twist into Dean’s hair, nails digging into his scalp, holding him right where he wants him, not allowing Dean the chance to even think about backing off.

Not that Dean would. Not with the sounds Cas makes for him.

"Fuck," Cas pants over the thick gagging noise of Dean's throat, " _ Dean _ ."

Dean hums in response, one hand burning his palm print into the flesh of Cas' thigh, the other clenched on his own, not touching himself until Cas wants him to. 

Cas starts fucking his face in earnest, harsh pants interspersed with breathy praise. A combination of drool and precome is escaping at the corners of Dean’s mouth and his lungs are burning, tears pricking his eyes.

"Touch yourself," Cas orders on a rushed exhale, thigh muscles taut, and Dean knows he's close. 

Pleasure winding in his gut, Dean drags his dick out of his jeans, smearing the precome gathered at the slit down the length, fucking up into his fist at the same pace Cas is fucking his face. It really isn’t going to take much at all; he loves doing this for Cas, loves the way the reaction is always slurred awe and praise about Dean and his talented mouth.

Dean swallows around Cas’ dick, throat fluttering, and Cas curses; dark, devastated eyes fixed on Dean’s mouth, breathing ragged, right on the cusp of coming. 

Hand tightening in Dean's hair to the point of pain, Cas shoves himself past Dean's gag-reflex, once, twice, three times before he's coming on a choked moan of Dean’s name, hot and bitter, flooding Dean’s mouth and throat, spilling out past the seal of his lips, down his chin. 

Dean follows over pretty much straight away, liquid fire in his veins and midnight static in his head, as he comes into the curve of his palm, Cas’ fucked-out encouragement the soundtrack.

By the time Dean drifts back to his (relative) senses, Cas is tucking himself back into his pants, all business-like, but he’s staring down at Dean with a mix of reverence and affection. He reaches for a handful of tissues from the box on his desk - it's literally never been used for anything other than sex-relates purposes - and passes them to Dean.

"It's three months until the wedding, do you think you can last that long?"

Smug asshole.

Dean swipes a forefinger through the come clinging to his chin, sucks the taste of it off with as much indecency as he can manage, and a little thrill zips through him when Cas’ eyes glaze and his lips part, "Can  _ you _ last that long?"

Cas clears his throat, glances away. When his eyes meet Dean's again, his expression is clear, carefully blank. "We could make this interesting." 

See, Cas is an unpredictable maniac, except for where he isn’t. Everything he does is for a reason, no matter how big or small, and like he said himself, he’s always making some kind of move. Which means that Dean’s in an ongoing game of chess, not playing hands of poker. In chess, you have to be thinking about how your move is going to be affecting their move and how their move will affect yours, etcetera etcetera. With poker, you have to consider the game you’re playing, but it’s on a hand-by-hand basis. It’s short-term, reactionary game-playing, which is all Dean’s been good at until now. 

Because he knows Cas, knows that he - just like Dean - cannot resist the siren call of a challenge. Dean’s just issued one, Cas is going to counter. Thing is, Dean already knows what with, because there's only one way it can go, really. And it’s precisely the route he wants Cas to pick.

This Machiavellian bullshit is  _ fun _ . 

Dean cleans himself up, tucks himself away. Doesn't toss the tissues into the wastebasket, 'cause Cas has got a meeting in -- oh shit, five minutes. The room smelling of sex is already bad enough without physical evidence.

It’s only Gabriel though, so it’s not like innuendos weren’t going to be made anyways.

He rises to his feet, presses a chaste kiss to Cas' lips, knowing that it's nothing more than a tease; Cas has always loved the way his own come tastes in Dean's mouth. Denying him is a dick move and Dean savors it. 

"What do you suggest?" Dean asks thickly, throat pleasantly sore, smoothing down Cas’ tie.

Cas presses his thumb to the center of Dean's lower lip, seemingly fascinated with the give of the swollen flesh, "Winner gets to do anything he wants to the loser on our wedding night. And I do mean  _ anything _ ."

_ And there it is.  _

Oh, fuck yes. 

"What are the parameters?" Dean asks right before he sucks Cas' thumb into his mouth, laves his tongue over the sweat-salt whorls. 

Cas makes a wounded sound when Dean scrapes an incisor over the digit. "Masturbation is still allowed. So is kissing, but no sex, or anything involving one another’s genitalia--"

Dean waggles his eyebrows, lets Cas' thumb slip out past his lips, "Oooh yeah, talk anatomy to me, Cas."

"-- no hand jobs, blow jobs, rimming, intercrural, frotting. The first one to touch the other in a sexual manner loses."

_ This is gonna be a tense three months.  _

Dean pretends to consider it for a long few moments. 

Sure, as he said before, it’s perhaps not the best idea; planning a wedding, dodging an over-zealous FBI agent, and trying not to get kidnapped by a rival with a crush on him... These are all pretty stressful and not being able to have Cas rail him until nothing else exists but the two of them is undoubtedly going to suck.

_ Or not, as the case may be.  _

But - and it's a big, juicy one - not only will Dean beat Cas at his own game, but his reward at the end is Cas. Any way he wants him. 

And hoo boy are there a  _ lot _ of ways Dean wants Cas. 

With a flirty smile, Dean says, "You've got yourself a deal, Cas."

Cas' smirk is wicked and a tendril of anticipation sneaks up Dean’s spine, making his spent dick twitch. "Alright," he says, clearly already scheming, coming up with yet more ways to torture Dean. He thinks he’s got this in the bag, "May the one with the most self-control win.”

Psht. As if it’s about self-control. If it was, Dean would be getting fucked over that cherry-wood desk within the hour. He’s weak AF when it comes to Cas. 

Nah, this is about spite. Revenge.

And if there’s one thing Cas _ should _ have learned about Dean through the Crowley thing?

It’s that Dean is a force to be reckoned with when it comes to revenge. 

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


If Dean’s a force, then Cas is an immovable object. 

Two mornings after their deal, Dean's coming out of their bathroom shower, rubbing at his wet hair with a fluffy towel, another around his waist, when he hears a low groan from the adjoining bedroom. 

Naively figuring Cas is dreaming or has read something disappointing in the newspaper, Dean pokes his head around the bathroom door.

_ Oh, holy fuck.  _

Cas is laying on the bed, covers kicked down to the end. He's completely naked, miles of inked, toned skin and muscle on display, hard length of his cock curving out from his body, broad hand jerking in firm downward strokes and upward pulls.

Dean's mouth is abruptly dry, his dick quickly filling with all the blood his brain needs to process this and not react. 

So his fiancé has a  _ lot _ of tattoos. This isn’t a new observation, it’s not like Dean’s only just noticing them, but it  _ is _ only recently that Dean’s been paying closer attention to the individual designs, the intricate artwork. There’s one in particular that Dean loves; it’s of a phoenix mid-flight, poised ready to attack, wings arched high above its body. It’s mostly grayscale with pops of color, and it stretches the full length of the left side of Cas’ ribcage, the tail coming to curl over his abdomen, right where he got shot. There’s something mesmerizing and ethereal about it and especially right now with the way the weak morning light spills in through the glass balcony doors, slanting across Cas' body, standing the cut of muscle, the jut of those sharp hip bones, in stark relief. 

In short, Cas looks like everything Dean’s ever wanted since he knew what his dick was for. 

_ Fuck. _

Dean's fingernails are splintering the wood with how hard he's clinging onto the door frame. Cas rolls his hips, head tossed back onto the pillows, dark hair a messy splay against their 500 imperial thread count.

He'd known dirty tactics would be employed, hell he has a few of his own planned, but this soon?

Unprecedented.

Back bowed, shoulders pressing down into the comforter as he strokes his cock, fucking up into the curve of his palm, Cas is clearly in the wrong profession. He might be a millionaire criminal, but he  _ could _ be a billionaire porn star. 

And Dean can watch the show, right? There's nothing in the rules about watching each other and jerking off to it, is there? It's just live-action porn.

_ Yeah. _

So why then, can’t he move, can’t breathe, can’t tear his eyes away.

Cas is hot like burning, eyes squeezed shut, bottom lip caught between his teeth, and he must know that Dean's watching, he can't not. 

A theory that's confirmed when he lets out a low groan of Dean's name and then his eyes open, dark and glassy, yet still focussing on exactly where Dean's holding onto the door frame for dear life. 

Fuck. Dean knows he's being played, but it's hard -  _ heh  _ \- to care when Cas looks like, well _this_. 

"Dean," Cas says again, his deep voice thick with pleasure, ten shades of sin, "Come here." 

Dean whines. He wants,  _ god does he want _ , but it's only been a couple of days and he  _ cannot  _ give in this easily. 

Watching Cas as the fat head of his dick disappears in and out of his fist, it's difficult to remember  _ why _ , but it’s gotta be for a good reason, right?

_ Right. Think about what you’ve got in store for Cas when you win.  _

Yeah.

All this fucking torture is gonna be so worth it.

He starts up an internal mantra of  _ you’ve got this, you’ve got this, you’ve got this _ , right as Cas lets out a guttural groan that would have more sensible, less petty people tripping over the still-cooling corpses of their beloved family to get to that dick.

_ Septic tanks. That woman who looks like a cat. Lumpy milk. _

Dean’s been prone to bouts of self-loathing in the past, but right now? Yeah, he’s never hated himself more as he manages to grind out, faux-cheerful, "Sorry, Cas. Nice try though, man. Really."

He tears himself away, bundles his clothes in his arms, and goes to get changed in another one of their many bedrooms. 

And if he has to have another shower so he can jack off under the spray, that's nobody's business but his own.

  
  


***

  
  


Dean’s second meeting with Nick doesn't go much better than the first, but nobody's committing any felonies so Dean counts it as a win.

The criteria is admittedly a low bar to pass. 

Benny's still in hospital apparently, a couple of cracked ribs and rebroken fingers and his insurance premiums must be damn near unaffordable. It’s probably wiser to start investing in funeral costs at this point, ‘cause that shit is expensive. 

Today, Nick’s dressed all smart-casual, though his words are anything but, "So you see what I meant about Castiel's reaction when it comes to you?”

An interesting opening gambit.

Dean hates it when Cas is right, the smug asshole. 

"Yeah," Dean agrees, like he's supposed to, “Admittedly, he can get a little...  _ overprotective _ .”

Nick raises his eyebrows, “A  _ little _ ?” 

Dean sucks in a breath between his teeth, shrugs in a way that feigns nonchalance.

Now. There are two ways Dean can play this:

  1. He can continue his ice-queen shit, making it very apparent to Nick that he would rather die than leave Cas. When these farcical negotiations fail (and they will) Nick will most likely attempt to kidnap him in order to force Cas into a corner. Whether he succeeds at this will depend on a _lot_ of factors that they don’t have time to plan for, which makes Dean (and Cas) more than a little nervous. Or,
  2. He can play up Benny’s side of the story. Benny will have undoubtedly spun Nick the tale that Dean’s an innocent in all this, influenced into doing heinous shit by the scary, dangerous, possessive gangster. If Dean pulls it off, he’ll have a shot at gaining Nick’s trust and ingratiating himself that way. At the very least he might be able to spin it so that Nick thinks he’s fucked Cas over by driving a wedge between them. As much as it sucks, there’s less scope for the unknown quantity of Nick; Dean will be able to control the situation a little better, giving a little bit of wiggle room in terms of time and Nick’s patience. 



In order to decide, Dean’ll need to find out exactly what Benny’s told Nick.

“I mean, I can see why,” Nick leers, nice and gross, “There’s something about you, Dean. Something that makes people go crazy. I mean, just look at Benny. Poor sap thinks he still has a chance.”

Aha. Perhaps this won’t be quite as difficult as Dean initially thought. 

“And how are you different? You want me to leave Cas for you.”

“Well, I have something to offer you that Benny doesn’t. Plus, I’ve been told all about you. I find it hard to believe that somebody like yourself who spent so much time being a good little boy is genuinely interested in someone as possessive and controlling as Castiel Novak. By all accounts--”

“-- _ Accounts?” _ Dean interrupts, “You mean my ex-husband, right?”

Nick takes a sip of his coffee, “Yes, alright. Your ex-husband. He tells me that you were a good man until you met Castiel. That what turned your head was most likely the power, the prestige, the feelings of helplessness in your formative years that drove you to want to take control for yourself.”

Oh Benny, you glorious fucking asshole. 

_ Option number two it is then.  _

See, that’s the interesting thing about Nick receiving supremely biased information from Benny. Of course his ex thinks Dean needs to be saved, that Cas is somehow the one who’s twisting Dean’s arm, the one who’s turned Dean into an unrecognizable vehicle for murder, all because Dean was desperate to take back control of his life. In fairness, it’s not a million miles away from the truth; it may have stemmed from all that, but Dean’s vindictiveness and propensity for violence had been overlooked by everyone close to him, except for Cas who bothered to look past Dean’s bored suburban housewife facade and saw Dean for who he was. 

Someone ‘so much more interesting’ than simply being a good person.

_ Goddamn. _

Still, as far as Benny (and now Nick) is concerned, Dean is Susan Atkins to Cas’ Charles Manson.

A murderer Dean may be, but he’s been  _ coerced _ into it.

Nick wants to be the one doing the coercing. The one wielding the dangerous weapon. Dean would be almost flattered if it didn’t vaguely feel like he was being objectified, and not in the fun, sexy way Cas does it. 

However, what it does mean is that, once again, Dean’s ability to play others’ expectations about him to his advantage is gonna be some stupid asshole’s downfall.

“I can give you all that and more,” Nick finishes, “You know I can. So I really think you should defect to the winning side while the offer still stands. Because my ego can only take so much rejection.”

_ Uh huh. _

Winning side? Jesus, this guy has a fucking God complex. Not that Cas doesn’t, but that’s ‘cause Cas  _ is _ a god. Cas built himself and everything he has from the ground up with literal blood, sweat, and tears. Nick inherited (because nepotism) a small branch of a dying organization that doesn’t have anywhere near the clout it did in its heyday.

Even so, now that he knows which way he’s gonna play this, Dean has to tread carefully. He can’t give in too quickly or Nick will figure him out; too slowly, and it defaults back to option one. 

He needs to be subtle about it, which is  _ so  _ not his forte, but if it means him and Cas coming out of this in one piece? He’ll be Al Pacino’s subtly intense performance in The Godfather Part. 2, for fuck’s sake. 

Dean tilts his head just a touch, a delicately submissive gesture, uncaps the lid of his reusable coffee cup - Cas’s idea, the fuckin’ hippy - and takes a drink of the coffee he had the barista pour into it. He knows it’s safe this time - he made sure to arrive first and buy the coffees - so there’s no roofies or any other salty surprise waiting. He licks his lips, feigning that he’s picking out his words carefully, “I talked to Cas. He’s willing to hear you out.”

He’s not. Not even a little bit. 

Eyes lowered, fiddling with his cup, Dean adds, “He would’ve been here, but after last time, I told him no.”

Nick’s smile is oily, all used-car salesman and Dean has to fight not to physically react. “Well done you, you shouldn’t have to put up with that possessive treatment.”

Nick thinks that they’re playing right into his hands - that Dean keeping Cas away is just going to push Cas further towards the edge, causing him to act out through jealousy, while also giving Nick the opportunity to win Dean over. Now that Dean knows as much as Cas does, it’s easy to see right through Nick’s high-school tactics and he can relax a little, safe in the knowledge that they won’t work. 

Cas and Dean will win this fight. And then they’ll get married and Dean will get the opportunity to do whatever the fuck he wants to Cas.

They win, so they (Dean) win(s).

“What’s the deal you want me to go back to Cas with?”

Nick leans forward right into Dean’s space, coffee on his breath, “I want Castiel’s money laundering operation. The staff, the warehouse, the machinery, everything.”

_Yikes._

That’s Cas’ pride and joy. Even if they weren’t plotting a fucking epic takedown, there’s no way Cas would ever agree to it. And judging by the gleam in Nick’s eye, he knows it too.

“You can’t seriously think he’s going to agree to that?”

“There are alternatives.”

Dean makes an exasperated sound, “Yeah, me or war.”

Nick sits back, satisfied, “Precisely. And I don’t actually think I’m being unreasonable. In fact, I could be asking for a lot more and you know it.”

It’s true. He could be, but him demanding the core of Cas’ business suggests that he’s not as keen on avoiding bloodshed as he wanted Dean to believe during their first meeting.

“Alright,” Dean mutters, rising from his seat, keen to get the hell outta here before he does something stupid like knife a mafia caporegime in broad daylight, “I’ll talk to him.”

Nick reaches for him, catching him around the wrist, and Dean’s immediate reaction is to throat punch the bastard, but he reins it in and forces himself to act compliant, “Dean, have you told him about the offer I made you?”

Ah. There it is. 

“No,” Dean lies, “I don’t want to make him more mad. Who knows what he might do?”

And really, he couldn’t be leaving Nick with better parting words. 

  
  


***

  
  


The search for a reliable, trustworthy cleaner-slash-housekeeper who doesn’t want to fuck either one of them or steal all the silver, continues. 

Does such a rare creature exist?

Dean gets it - the pair of them are sex on legs for sure, but come  _ on _ , the amount of horny, thirty-something cleaning professionals in their local area is surely well above the national average. 

Single Dean would be in heaven. Engaged-but-not-getting-any-and-why-the-fuck-is-that-again Dean is less than amused. 

So far they’ve interviewed a red-headed, absolute knockout of a woman named Jo who seemed more interested in Cas’ designer suit than the body in it,  _ thank fuck _ , but still. Dean has no doubt that she’d be rifling through their closets first chance she got, probably doing away with the weird blade Cas keeps in a cabinet in the library too and melting it down or some shit.

The next candidate was a pretty blond named April and she was just one big fucking nope. There was nothing good behind her eyes as she stared at Cas. 

Another one was called Lydia who looked at Dean like she wanted to have his babies and Cas nixed her pretty much as soon as she walked in.

Suffice it to say, it’s been a pretty unproductive afternoon. At least it’s a mild enough day that they can do this outside on the veranda. Cas is sitting across from him in one of the resin wicker armchairs, completely immersed in the next disaster’s resume, and Dean’s  _ bored _ . 

Waiting for people to make their move is  _ boring _ . Waiting for Nick to declare war is  _ boring _ . Waiting for Henriksen to come to them is _ boring _ . Dean wants to go out there and start a fight, a fire, anything to be doing something rather than sitting here. Cas is good at all parts of this gangstering shit - the torture, the blood, the paperwork, the  _ endless fucking meetings _ . Dean not so much. Now he’s discovered this brand of freedom, he doesn’t intend to spend it signing purchase orders and talking shop with the mayor. 

His fingertips tingle with the need to inflict some violence and he wonders if he can track Benny down and finish what Cas started. 

“Dean,” Cas says, steel in his tone. 

“Hmm?” Dean asks around the pen in his mouth. He’s not sure when it got there, but he vaguely remembers picking it up when he was daydreaming about jabbing it into Nick’s neck. It’s not one of those fancy astronaut pens though - the ones made of steel or whatever - it’s just an ordinary ballpoint, so it’d probably splinter and buckle.

“Please remove the pen from your mouth.”

Dean’s eyes flick up to Cas. He has his own pen poised between his fore and middle fingers, like he’s been making notes on the resumes and holy shit he  _ has  _ \--

“Oh my god,” Dean laughs upon seeing the circled sections and scrawled blocks of text, “You haven’t seriously been making notes? Have you been grading them too?”

“How else am I supposed to decide who’s worthy of an interview?”

Dean gapes at his fiancé, dumbfounded. “You’re serious.” And grouchy too, apparently.

“I am,” Cas confirms, “So if you wouldn’t mind. One of us has to do some work around here.”

_ Definitely grouchy. _

Huh. Dean stares at the pen in his hand. Why is Cas in a mood about a freakin’ pen? It’s not like he needs it and Dean was hardly deep-throating it--

_ Oh. _

Oh.

Dean slides the pen back between his lips, catching the metal clip against his teeth. Cas' sharp glance up only confirms Dean’s theory. 

“Dean,” He warns, eyes dark.

“What?” Dean asks around the pen, dragging the cap along his bottom lip, “All’s fair in love and war, right Cas?” He curls his tongue around the end of the pen, “And you’ve got such amazing self-control--”

In one smooth move, Cas leans forward across the table separating them and snatches the pen out of Dean’s mouth and tosses it over his shoulder with an air of triumph.

“Real mature,” Dean mutters at Cas who has turned his attention back to the resume with a smirk on his lips. “What time is our next interview? I might go get a popsicle.”

Cas’ victorious smile fades, “Don’t you dare.”

Dean’s up and out of his chair before Cas can get a hand on him, and he bolts for the nearest set of doors. Cas is quick, but not quick enough, sheaves of paper everywhere and Dean clicks the lock into place just as Cas catches up. On the other side of the glass, Dean slowly sucks his middle finger between his lips, releases it with a pop and holds it up in Cas’ face.

Cas’ expression darkens and Dean laughs, blows his fiancé a kiss before he practically skips off to go get a popsicle or a dildo, whichever he finds first. 

  
  


***

  
  


He finds Cas first. Or more accurately, Cas finds him. 

He pins Dean by the wrists and hips to the nearest wall, growls, “You are insufferable.”

Dean smirks, doesn’t quite roll his hips into Cas’ (‘cause that would be against the rules), but he wiggles enough to make it obvious how he (and his dick) feels about Cas’ show of dominance, “And yet you suffer me, Cas. You must be a fuckin’ idiot or something.”

“Or something,” Cas mutters wryly, releasing his grip on Dean’s wrists. He steps away, locking himself back down under a facade of relentless indifference, and Dean pouts. He was  _ so  _ close. 

Sensing that Dean isn’t gonna give this shit up any time soon and is instead gonna drive him to distraction, Cas suggests, “Why don’t you go and check in with Jack? He’s watching Henriksen. It’ll give you something to do.”  _ That isn’t trying to provoke me into fucking you. _

“Yeah, alright.” Dean agrees. He’s got a rather important (AKA  _ game-winning _ ) appointment to make anyways, so it’ll be good to get out of Cas’ hair for a little while. He drags Cas in by the loose neck of his shirt, presses a chaste kiss to his mouth, “I’ll see you later. Don’t pick anyone who’s gonna make me fight for your affections. I will cut a bitch.”

Cas’ mouth curls up in amusement, “It’s your stable mind that I’m marrying you for.”

Dean grins in return, “Right back at ya, you psychopath.”

  
  


***

  
  


Dean hated Jack on sight. 

Which considering their first meeting, was probably a fair - if jealousy-fueled - judgment on Dean’s part. Cas, the manipulative fuck, was trying (and succeeding) to rile Dean up even back then, and it’s a testament to Dean’s utter obliviousness in those early days, that Cas got anywhere. 

Now though? Dean kinda likes the kid. He’s adorably naive in a way that Dean didn’t think anybody in Cas’ world could be, but he has his badass moments too. 

What is it that Claire calls people like that? Precious cinnamon rolls? Yeah, that’s Jack.

Dean’s probably not using that right, but Jack himself will know. Kid is closer in age to _their_ kids than he is to either Dean or Cas, which just makes Dean feel  _ really _ old. 

“What’s a precious cinnamon roll?” Dean asks from behind the wheel of a ‘borrowed’ Ford Focus, as they watch Henriksen dash from his vehicle to the city hall building. 

Jack blinks like he’s been asked the meaning of life, “Oh. I think it’s to do with something or someone being ‘too pure for this world’?”

Fucking teenagers. Why can’t they ever make sense? “O--kay. _Why_ are cinnamon rolls too pure for this world?”

At nineteen years old, he never thought he’d be the living example of an out-of-touch parent, yet here he is. 

_ Probably never thought you’d be a pretty serious criminal, living in a twelve million dollar mansion either, yet here you are.  _

Jack shrugs, the whole thing seemingly lost on him too. They settle into a comfortable silence, Dean munching his way through a burrito, waiting for Henriksen to emerge again, until Jack says, “I know you don’t like me very much, but I’m not sure why. Castiel says it’s his fault--”

_ Dammit, Cas. _

“-- I don’t hate you, Jack. I just. The first time we met, I was super stressed, yeah? I was really new to all this and Cas was being Cas and I just...” He stares down at the Mexican food in his lap like somehow it’ll have the answers - y'know,  _ Jesus on a tortilla _ and all that crap, “I’ve been an ass to you and even though I’ve hopefully stopped recently, I never apologized for how I was back then. So, I’m sorry, man.”

Jack turns to Dean, beams this wide, toothy grin and yeah, kid really is too pure for this world.

Satisfied he’s made things right, Dean takes another bite out of his burrito. 

Seconds later, it becomes apparent that’s a mistake when Jack tells him casually, “It’s cool. Castiel says you were jealous because you thought we were fucking--”

Dean chokes on his mouthful of tortilla and beef, face as red as the tomato slice that he almost aspirates into his lung.

“--But we weren’t, so there was never any need to be jealous. Silly, huh?”

_ You’re a dead man, Castiel Novak. _

Slamming a fist into his chest to dislodge the food from his windpipe, Dean manages a strangled, “Yeah, totally silly.”

Jack gives him another wide smile, like he’s mentally dusting off his hands,  _ ‘all done’ _ , and Dean just gapes at him like a barely functioning moron. 

_ Is this kid for real? _

“Ooh,” Jack points out the windshield to where Henriksen is on his way back to his nondescript car, this time with a file in hand. He glances around before he gets in the car, like he’s checking to make sure he’s not being followed. 

Which is something all law-abiding FBI agents do. Or not.

_ What the hell is going on? _

Dean starts the car, ready to follow.

  
  


***

  
  


“So,” Dean says, beer in hand, sitting out on their balcony, the heat lamp keeping him and Cas surprisingly warm, even though it’s December and neither of them are wearing much more than threadbare t-shirts and sweatpants. Both kids are with their moms and usually Dean and Cas would be fucking their way through the house, but since that’s out, they’re talking like adults for a change, and admittedly it’s not the  _ absolute _ worst.

He’d still rather be getting dicked by the pool though.

“What are you going to do about Henriksen?”

He and Jack followed the agent back to the motel he’s staying at, waited outside for a couple of hours, but he didn’t emerge and had no visitors. The only conclusion Dean can draw is that Henriksen  _ might _ be dirty? Him going in and out of city hall ain’t exactly headline news, but the way he glanced up and down the street to check (unsuccessfully ‘cause he didn’t spot Dean and Jack) for tails, certainly suggests some chicanery afoot.

Bottle halfway to his mouth, Cas side-eyes Dean, “What I should’ve done in the first place.”

_ Whoops. _

“You’re still sore about that, huh?”

Dean waits for the obligatory  _ ‘I told you so’ _ , can feel it barrelling down on him like a fucking freight train. Cas swallows his mouthful of beer, answers, “He was always going to show up again. If you’d have just let me kill him...”

_ Right on goddamn time. _

Dean waves a dismissive hand, “Yeah yeah.” He affects Cas’ low timbre, mimicking him pretty damn well from that first time in the warehouse when they were hashing that shitty 15% deal and still pretending like they didn’t wanna mount each other. Kinda like now, “‘ _ It’s the most efficient way _ ’.”

Cas tilts his head and fixes Dean with a _ look.  _ “All this time and you still can’t do an adequate impression of me.” He tsks, takes another pull from his beer, and Dean absolutely, definitely doesn’t watch the way his fiancé closes his eyes as he drinks, tattoo moving over the surface of his flawless skin with every swallow. 

Nor does he stare slack-jawed at the shiny wetness of his plump bottom lip when the bottle is pulled away.

_ Fuck’s sake. _

They’re gonna have to start sleeping in separate bedrooms like those sexually pure yahoos who wait until after marriage to discover that they’re not sexually compatible. 

Except Dean and Cas are compatible,  _ so insanely compatible _ , and Dean’s losing focus here as he stares at the long-fingered grace of Cas picking at the label on his bottle. 

“Henriksen,” Dean splutters like a safeword, and Cas slants a smirk in Dean’s direction, knowing exactly where Dean’s train of thought was headed, the fucking mind reader.

“Hmm?” 

Smug fucker. 

_ Focus, Winchester. _

“Err,” Dean waits for his brain to finish loading, “Is there a way we can get rid of him and Nick in one fell swoop? Because if we only get rid of Henriksen, then it’s a problem solved sure, but they’ll just send someone else in his place, right?”

“Most likely,” Cas acknowledges, pad of his index finger rubbing around the rim of the bottle, “But I don’t think framing Nick for the fires will work.”

Dean needs something much stronger than beer if he’s gonna survive Cas and his teasing, “No. Not the fires. We frame Nick for Henriksen’s murder. Two major pains in our ass, one bullet. They’ll both be gone and if we still pin the fire bullshit on Tyrus and his gang as scheduled, we'll close the book on the whole sorry affair, and we won’t have to worry about any T-1000 clones coming after us.”

Cas looks at him then, all traces of playfulness gone as he blinks once, twice. Like he can’t quite believe what Dean’s saying. It could be the Terminator reference that’s bringing him up short, but Dean suspects it’s the casual mention of offing Henriksen, “You’re advocating for the murder of a federal agent. Of an--” and out come the air quotes, “‘innocent’? Are you sure about this?”

Eh. At this point it makes little difference. Dean’s moral compass hasn’t pointed true north for quite some time now. 

“It’s him or us, right?” At Cas’ solemn nod, Dean says, “Well then it’s a pretty easy decision. But first, we need to figure out what he’s up to.” He drains his beer, waits for Cas to do the same so he can escape to safety under the cover of getting them fresh bottles, “And I’ll need to turn up the heat with Nick.”

Cas makes a disgruntled sound in the back of his throat, but otherwise doesn’t say anything else. Not that he needs to, ‘cause displeasure is written in every line of his handsome face.

“Hey man,” Dean cajoles, “Me being the bait was your stupid fucking idea, I’m just making sure that I’m the best bait I can be.”

  
  


***

  
  


Nick might be an attractive guy, but as he shoves Dean against the rough bark of a Bur Oak in Clinton Park, Dean realizes that good looks mean nothing when there’s no charm to back it up. 

From here - a deserted copse of trees Dean led Nick to under the pretense of getting away from Gabriel - they’re out of sight of other park goers. (And more importantly, Gabriel, who Nick thinks is here as a compromise - someone to watch over Dean in Cas’ absence - but in actuality, Gabe is catching up with his backlog of daily sudoku puzzles on his phone). 

Tamping down the urge to knife the fucker in the kidney, Dean instead hunches his shoulders, lets Nick think that he’s in control of this situation. 

_ This is it. Time to bait the hook. _

“Cas’ll kill you,” Dean hisses, partly because it’s true and partly because it’s what he’s supposed to say. 

At the very least, Cas is gonna cut Nick’s hands off as per his vehement promise in the coffee shop parking lot the other week. _ Dean’s _ gonna be the one to kill him.

Nick smiles, all shark teeth and sickeningly pleased with himself, “No, he won’t. Because you won’t tell him, will you?” The grip on Dean’s bicep tightens, “And why is that exactly? Who are you protecting here? Him or  _ me _ ? As you say, the second you tell him about my proposition, I’m a dead man, so surely that would be  _ ideal _ for you. That’s if you really want me gone, of course, and aren’t simply stalling for time to make the decision to leave him.”

_ Hook, line, and sinker.  _

Dean swallows hard and glances away, like Nick’s hit on a truth so profound that he can’t look him in the eyes. Like Dean would leave Cas in a heartbeat, but hasn’t wanted to leap out of the frying pan into the fire. 

Like he’s just been waiting for an escape route.

Ostensibly, Dean called this meeting in the park because he wanted to ‘talk in private’. In reality, he wanted to push a little more and test how ballsy Nick would get when not confined to both a coffee shop and the societal expectation to keep your hands off your enemy’s significant other. 

The fact that - at the first available opportunity - he manhandled Dean against a tree, tells Dean everything he wanted to know.

“I can’t,” Dean says eventually, voice cracking in the middle, a little theatrical bonus.

_ And the Oscar goes to... _

It works. Eyes shining like he’s won already, Nick says, “Of course you can. He’s nothing, he’ll  _ be _ nothing without you. Come to me, Dean. I promise I’ll never pull the possessive shit he does. You’ll be respected and we’ll be revered and feared wherever we go. You’ll be in the mafia, for fuck’s sake. How’s that for life goals, huh?”

The man is damn persuasive. Smooth-tongued and so close to being sincere that Dean might’ve believed it if he actually felt the way he’s pretending to. 

As it is, he just feels mildly nauseous and there’s a headache in its infancy pressing at his temples. He gazes up at Nick through honeyed lashes, knowing  _ exactly _ how he looks, acting as though he’s injecting some steel into his spine for the sake of keeping up appearances, “No. I can’t.”

Yeah, give Dean all the fucking awards. 

“Dean--” Nick starts, pressing in closer and Dean can feel bile rising, so he tries to trick himself into believing it’s Cas, but he can’t; Nick’s too tall, too soft around the middle, and he smells  _ wrong _ .

Dean shoves him away, right as Gabriel appears - a couple of seconds later than Dean planned, but he’s nothing if not a proficient improviser - and so he stalks on past Gabe, catches his eyes and jerks his head in Nick’s direction. 

“Dean!” Nick tries to follow him, but Gabriel steps in his way, blocking his path.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, bucko,” Gabe tells him and even though it would take three of him in a trench coat to match Nick’s height, he holds his own. 

Which is just as well, ‘cause if Dean had to step in to help, it would ruin the very delicate fantasy he’s building for Nick here. 

“Dean, listen to me,” Nick says again. Dean stops, but doesn’t turn around, “I’ll be at  _ Pelagio’s  _ for the New Year’s celebrations. I expect you to tell me  _ Castiel’ _ s answer then, okay?”

_ Castiel’s answer? _

Jesus Christ. This guy is  _ not _ subtle.

Still, Dean’s bought them some time and that was at least part of his aim through this icky farce.

“Okay,” Dean says, “I’ll be there.”

  
  


***

  
  


Dean’s been feeling a little off-kilter lately. It’s hard to pinpoint exactly why. Could it be the distinct lack of sex that he friggin’ instigated like the short-sighted jackass he is? Perhaps.  Could it be the deranged caporegime of the local mafia who wants to use Dean as a metaphorical and literal weapon and also a fucktoy in order to destroy Dean’s fiancé? Maybe. Could it be the potentially crooked FBI agent who wants to lock the pair of them up for the rest of their lives and throw away the key? It’s a possibility.

Alternatively, it could be that he’s planning a fucking wedding and had the misfortune to take a call from the caterers where he had to confirm that no, they most certainly do not want caviar pancakes (what the fuck) even though ‘it’s more in keeping with the overall tone of the day’.

_ Yeahhh.  _

It means absolutely nothing to Dean. ‘Overall tone of the day’? It’s a fucking wedding, not a visit from the queen. 

Cas had told him to compromise and go for salmon blinis.

Thank Christ one of them has a bit of culture.

So yeah, Dean might be under just a little bit of stress at the moment. Which goes some way to explaining why he’s suddenly lost his everloving mind and is trying his hand at this domestic shit.

It could be a midlife crisis, it could be a psychotic break; Dean’s always loved surprises. 

The  _ point  _ of trying his hand at not being a complete domestic failure remains a salient one though; he and Cas are in their fucking thirties and neither of them can cook worth a shit. 

Their talents lie elsewhere, which generally suits Dean just fine, but at some point, one of them is gonna have to learn how to make a bacon sandwich without setting off the smoke detectors.

Apparently today is not that day.

Cas appears in the kitchen doorway, adorably sleep-rumpled with (regrettably not)-sex hair everywhere, “What are you doing? It’s four AM.”

Shit. Is it?

_ Whoops. _

Dean stops his frantic dish towel flapping now that the deafening sirens have cut out. He climbs down from the island via a chair, “Err, I was attempting to cook breakfast?”

“Are you asking me or telling me?” Cas grumps as he comes closer. He peers down into the skillet and mutters, “Looks like you cooked it by setting off a Claymore.”

Okay, so it’s a _ bit  _ burned. Carbon’s good for you though, right?

Switching on the twenty-five grand coffee machine (‘cause of course the asshole got his way, he always fucking does), Cas braces his weight against the counter, stares Dean down with tired eyes, “Why are you cremating bacon at four o’clock in the morning?”

Dean wants to make a joke, something like  _ ‘what, you think a burial at sea is more appropriate?’ _ , but he doesn’t. Instead, he goes for the much wittier and mature, “I think the real question is, why aren’t  _ you _ ?”

Cas breathes in and out verrrrry slowly, as though he’s trying to remind himself that yes, he does love this absolute idiot, and no, shooting him before the wedding - while deserved - isn’t the best way to show that love. “ _ It’s four AM _ ,” he reiterates, like that somehow changes Dean’s answer.

It doesn’t. 

Dean shrugs, twists the dish towel in his hands, “I figured now was as good a time as any to learn to cook.”

Cas tilts his head and squints at Dean, an attempt no doubt to decipher if he’s being fucked with. Sadly, he’s not. Apparently deciding he’s not going through this shit every time Dean has a meltdown, Cas finally says, “Alright, it seems as though we’re hiring a personal chef too.”

  
  


***

More car parts turn up at the garage. 

Cas plays the enraged, possessive lover extremely well (it’s called method acting, Dean thinks - or being perfect for the part) and destroys an engine that costs upwards of fifty-thousand dollars on the forecourt of Dean’s garage in front of the delivery driver (who sensibly, isn’t Benny).

Dean silently mourns for the poor, innocent MG Roadster engine that did nothing to deserve Cas’ wrath.

_ Precious cinnamon roll. Too pure for this world. _

  
  


***

  
  


Luckily, the hunt for a personal chef goes much better than the one for a housekeeper-slash-cleaner. The head chef at the restaurant recommends a friend of his who is looking for part-time hours, which is perfect. Five minutes into the practical interview - because Dean was starving and sick of takeout - Cas and Dean decide to hire him.

The guy - Leo - knows his way around a kitchen, shows absolutely no interest in Cas or Dean beyond polite, professional regard, nor does he seem the type to case the joint for shit to sell.

Plus, he passed the background check Cas runs on all applicants alongside his little grading system. 

All-in-all, he’s just what they’re looking for, and when he places a colorful plate of freshly-cooked, mouthwatering food in front of Dean? Yeah, he’ll pay this guy whatever the fuck he wants. 

“I don’t ‘spose you know any housekeepers, do you?” Dean asks as he forks in a mouthful of delicious paella. 

“As a matter of fact,” Leo says, “I do.

  
  


***

  
  


Mrs. Curry - their new housekeeper - is kinda awesome. She’s good at her job; efficient, kindly, and no-nonsense. But most importantly, she sides with Dean in nine out of ten arguments - it’s hard to find someone not taken in by Cas’ blue-eyed-angel look - and she’s also discreet AF.

The former is something Dean is grateful for all the time, the latter he only becomes overwhelmingly thankful for when, a mere week into her employment, she inadvertently discovers his panty drawer on her cleaning rounds. She says nothing other than advising Dean to let her know when he needs the satin ones washing because, and quote:  _ “They need to be hand-washed very carefully, otherwise you run the risk of stretching them out of shape.” _

_ Yeah. _

Aside from the initial embarrassment at having a rather unusual conversation with someone old enough to be his mother, Dean’s actually super thankful. Cas bought them for him before their sex lockdown and Dean would be devastated if he ruined them before he had a chance to use them to drive Cas mad.

So, yeah. He kinda loves her already.

Tonight she’s pottering around in the main foyer as Dean and Cas are getting ready to leave for a parent-teacher conference. Dean’s patting himself down, making sure he’s got all his shit together (relatively speaking, of course) while Cas disappears out the front door, warning Dean to  _ stop stalling _ . 

He’s not. Well, not really. It’s just he hates these things and it’s not helped by the fact that this is both an alibi of sorts for the shit that’s about to go down with Tyrus’ gang as well as a genuine chance to find out what the fuck is going on with Ben’s grades. They haven’t been slipping enough to be truly concerned, but certainly enough to make Dean perform a comedic double-take at his latest report card.

Lisa has escaped the bullshit by gleefully informing Dean that it’s ‘his turn’.

_ Psht.  _

Just because Dean has managed to wriggle out of the last... four? five? times, does not mean that it’s ‘his turn’, goddammit. It just means that the school enjoys dragging them in all the time for frivolous shit. 

Mrs. Curry comes over, turns Dean’s jacket collar, smooths it out. She looks up at him fondly, “My boy, Billy, had a dip in his grades as he was approaching teenagehood. Now he’s an engineer earning more in a month than I earn in a year. Don’t worry, Ben will be fine.”

Ben will be fine, sure. But will Dean? That’s the question. 

“How much would you need to make in a year to match him?” Dean asks with what he knows is his most charming smile, “Because I’ll pay it, you know I will.”

She pats his lapel, “I know you would and that’s why I won’t tell you. Now off with you, so I can put the laundry away and get myself home. Oh, speaking of,” She adds, “I washed those satin panties of yours. I know you said you haven’t worn them yet, but you really should wash underwear - all clothes actually, but especially ones in close contact with sensitive areas of skin - before you wear them for the first time.”

Now that, Dean did not know. How has he gotten to almost 33 without knowing that?

“Dean!” Cas yells from outside, the impatient asshole. “We’re going to be late!”

Dean glances at the nearest clock he installed for this very purpose, sighs. “One second, Cas!” 

To the homely, middle-aged woman with platinum hair and gray eyes, he says, “Thanks, Mrs. C. I honestly have no clue what I did before you.”

It’s not even a lie. Dean would’ve chucked those panties on and got himself some kind of rash from the chemicals or some shit and that certainly would’ve put a damper on their sexploits, if they were having any, but they’re not and--

Oh. Oh, holy shit. 

He grasps her by the shoulders, eyes comically wide, “Can you hold him off for five minutes? You’ve just given me a fantastic idea.”

When she nods, brow knitted, confused, but willing to help Dean in any way she can, Dean pecks her on the cheek, says, “Thanks,” before bolting for the nearest set of stairs, taking them two at a time. He runs past about a gazillion doors until he finds their bedroom. Going over to his chest of drawers, he yanks the panty drawer open, finds the blue satin ones folded neatly, and sitting pretty on top of the other handful or so other pairs.

_ God bless you, Mrs. C.  _

See, Dean’s noticed Cas watching him closely, waiting for Dean’s counter strike to his little solo action the other week. Cas knows  _ something _ is coming, just not  _ what _ . If he thinks about it too hard, then he’ll figure it out, and he’ll be able to brace himself. It needs to be a complete surprise to be as effective as Dean  _ knows _ it will be, so he’s gonna do his best to throw Cas off the scent in the meantime. 

Of course, if Cas gives in before then? Well, that’s just a bonus.

  
  


***

  
  


They’re halfway to the school when Cas remarks, "We need to decide on a song for our first dance."

It’s the first and only thing he’s said to Dean since they left the house. Apparently, annoyed that Dean was taking so long, Cas had flounced (Mrs. C’s word, not Dean’s) back inside, only to be greeted by their housekeeper demanding that Cas go over the seating chart for the wedding. 

Cas can't say no to her any more than Dean can, the big softie.

Dean flippantly responds, "What about  _ Flower _ by Liz Phair?"

Cas shoots him a withering glare.

"What?" Dean asks, glancing away from the road, knowing full well  _ what _ .

"It's hardly got a beat for dancing."

"It's the  _ beat  _ that has you shooting down my suggestion, Cas, not the lyrics?"

"Yes," Cas confirms, amusement crawling under the word, "There are far more obscene songs.  _ Fucked with a Knife _ by Cannibal Corpse, for instance."

_Point._

Dean laughs, “Are you suggesting that we have that as our first dance?” He shoves Cas in the shoulder, flutters his eyelashes, “You old romantic, you.”

Cas finally cracks, genuine smile breaking through the stoicism and grumpiness, and Dean internally fist pumps, always proud of being able to make Cas smile, “Admittedly, not quite the tone we’re going for.” 

Which is reassuring to know, really.

They drive on in silence for a couple more blocks. Cas hums to himself, like he’s just remembered something, “Since you brought up flowers, what do you think of dahlias?”

Dean doesn’t respond. They’ve had this conversation before and he’s not budging. 

He can practically  _ hear  _ Cas rolling his eyes, “We’re not having those begonias at our wedding. They’re not even flowers--”

“--Precisely! I don’t need flowers, I’m not a chick.”

Cas’ response is noticeable by its absence.

“Oh, fuck you.” Dean says, (mostly) without heat, “I’m not having flowers. I want the Begonias and that’s it. They’re called  _ Rex _ for christ’s sake and they look like they were designed by Tim Burton and you can’t make me get flowers if I don’t want them.”

Is he being a brat? Probably. Does Cas deserve it? Definitely.

“They’re bad luck.”

“No, they’re not. According to that almanac website - which is a load of horseshit anyways - they represent ‘dark thoughts’,” Dean flashes a grin in Cas’ direction, “Doesn’t get much darker than us, babe.”

Cas sighs, knowing when he’s beaten, “Fine. But I get to choose the toasting flutes.”

If Dean knew what a toasting flute was then maybe he’d give a shit, but he doesn’t, so he doesn’t. “Oh, no, not the toasting flutes! How can you make such an important decision alone?”

“Infuriating,” Cas mutters, but there’s a faint smile on his pretty mouth, so Dean revels in his win.

  
  


***

  
  


As predicted, the parent-teacher conference passes at a snails’ pace - if the snail was dead and being slowly digested by a predator - and Dean fidgets, satin against his dick too delicious to ignore.

To be honest, at this point, just someone saying the word  _ ‘dick’  _ with the right intonation would get him hard, so y’know. 

They’re sitting in a middle row of the crappy fold-out chairs, surrounded by other parents of seventh graders. For the millionth time in this long-ass hour, Dean wishes Claire and Ben were in the same year, ‘cause they’ve gotta go through all this shit again in a couple of days for her grade.

Dean shifts again, squirming at the way the cool, silky fabric pulls taut over his steadily-filling cock. 

Cas’ hand squeezes his thigh in warning, oblivious to the rapidly developing  _ situation _ .

_ Uh oh. _

“--Overall, we’re very proud of your kids’ progress so far this academic year,” the teacher is saying, but it’s all white noise as far as Dean’s concerned, might as well be Charlie Brown’s teacher,  _ wah wah wah _ , for all the attention he’s paying. 

Cas leans in, breath hot over Dean’s ear and  _ that is not helping _ , “What’s wrong with you?”

Oh, so many things, but right now? Right now he needs to get out of this stifling room before he gives himself away and they slap an injunction on him for being a filthy pervert on school grounds. 

He rises and starts doing the awkward shuffle out of the row, only trampling on a couple of toes, if the indignant, middle class mutters of pain are anything to go by. He flashes an apologetic smile at the teacher before he darts out of the classroom and dashes for the bathroom like that time he thought he’d suddenly become lactose intolerant, but actually Sam had just put laxatives in his grilled cheese.

Occasionally Sam gets him back good. That was one such unfortunate time.

He shoulders into the bathroom, pink-cheeked and turned on. 

_ Well, the whole satin panty thing backfired spectacularly, didn’t it? _

He was supposed to be fucking with Cas’ head, not his own.

_ Jesus. _

Dean’s gonna have to take them off. He can’t spend the rest of the night like this, he’ll come out of his goddamn skin. Probably literally. 

He’s got his pants unzipped and hanging off his hips, halfway to a stall when he hears the door opening behind him. 

“Dean.”

Dean makes the mistake - or not - of turning around to face his fiancé, who’s followed him out of either concern or annoyance; it’s difficult to tell with the way his face is transfixed on the blue satin barely covering Dean’s erection.

Oh.

A handful of weighted seconds go by, getting heavier and heavier with each one that passes, until Cas is closing the distance between them in long, purposeful strides. He shoves Dean into the sinks, fucking his tongue straight into Dean’s mouth, like he owns the place and Dean’s just renting. Long-fingered, capable hands on Dean’s face hold him right where his fiancé wants him as they kiss, open-mouthed and dirty, the familiar taste of Cas sparking something frantic and needy in Dean. 

He’s dizzy from the kiss, the way they’re sharing breath, so he drags his mouth away, down Cas’ jaw, and Cas tilts his head back, giving Dean access to his neck as his hands curl into Dean’s hair. Cas’ pulse is pounding hot under Dean’s tongue as he sucks a bruise into the dip of Cas’ throat, careful - even through his wild haze of lust - not to touch Cas anywhere that would see him forfeiting the bet, choosing to dig his fingers deep into the safety of Cas’ solid shoulders. He can feel Cas’ answering erection pressing against his hip, and he whines, teeth scraping over the angel tattooed on Cas’ throat. Cas’ hands tighten and he drags Dean’s mouth back to his, kissing him deep and sloppy, and  _ oh so fucking good _ . 

Yes.  _ Finally.  _

_ Fucking  _ **_finally._ **

But then, with an agonized sound, Cas tears himself away, blue swallowed by black, pink mouth kiss-bruised and slick with Dean’s spit. 

_ Or not. _

Goddammit. Dean was so fucking close (in every possible way).

_ Shit shit shit. _

Cas’ breathing is ragged, nostrils flaring with every fought-for breath into his lungs, shoulders heaving, and literally  _ nobody _ has ever looked at Dean the way Cas is looking at him right now.

Dean’s dick throbs in response, his body so attuned to Cas and the way he can communicate with nothing more than the curve of his plush mouth, or the quirk of an eyebrow.

If Dean had it in him, he’d be getting sappy right now. Instead, he’s staring down his fiancé at their kids’ private school during a parent-teacher conference, whilst Dean is wearing blue satin panties during a self-imposed sex embargo.

What the fuck are they doing?

“You--” Cas starts, cuts himself off, looking more lost than Dean has ever seen him, a hand in his hair, pulling hard enough that it has to hurt. There’s something burning around the edges of his glare when he begins picking up the pieces of his self-control, reassembling the facade right in front of Dean’s eyes.

Despite all the spit-swapping, Dean’s mouth is abruptly dry, “I-- I...”

Yeah, he’s got nothing.

He remembers that he’s just standing here, panties on show, so he forces his zipper up over his hard dick (Deja fucking Vu or what) and tries to scrape himself together. “We should--” He gestures over Cas’ shoulder. 

“We should,” Cas agrees solemnly. But he’s not moving. 

Both of them are wondering whether it's worth it. Weighing up the pros and cons of just going for it and letting the other one win.

Pettiness has never been such a burden. 

Luckily (or not), the spell is broken when another parent bursts in, going straight to a urinal and relieving himself loudly with a groan. Seriously, racehorses have pissed less forcefully. He calls out over his shoulder, "What a boring night, huh, fellas? Waste of everybody's time."

Dean catches Cas' eyes. 

They're dark and fathomless, that kind of intensity they take on right before Cas fucks him until tears are staining his cheeks and he's about to orgasm dry for the third time. 

No, Dean wouldn't say that it's been a waste of  _ everybody's _ time.

  
  


***

  
  


They speak to Ben's teacher, Mrs. McKenzie, at length. She's not particularly concerned about the dip in their son’s grades. He's still performing well in class, he’s just a little distracted as all kids  with two gangster dads his age are. She reassures them that if he needs a bit of extra tutoring, she’ll let them know.

Which is heartening, if to be expected, from a school that charges such exorbitant fees.

Dean, never being one to turn down an opportunity to ask a burning and pertinent question, says, “Do you know what a precious cinnamon roll is?”

The logic is sound. If anyone’s gonna know, surely it’s gonna be the woman who spends all her time around kids. Right?

“Err,” She glances between him and Cas, eyes searching Cas’ face for confirmation that yes, Dean is a consenting adult, rather than Cas’ patient on day release. “Not really. I think it’s a meme thing.”

_ Not helpful. _

Cas is unusually quiet. And still. Like a fucking lion crouched low before he attacks and gnaws the leg off a wildebeest. It’s unnerving to say the least and Ben’s teacher, bless her, must feel the vibe that the pair of them are giving off like the Roumoules radio transmitter. She smiles brightly, changes the subject, “I hear from Ms. Hayes that congratulations are in order? You’re getting married?”

Is it normal for teachers to gossip about parents?

Probably only the ones you hate, love, or wanna fuck. For Ms. Hayes, Dean’s the former, Cas the latter. 

_ Though maybe not so much anymore, eh? _

“Err, yeah,” Dean says, side-eyeing his not-so-hetero life mate, Silent Cas, “A couple of months away now.”

“So you’re going for a February date?” At Dean’s nod of confirmation, Mrs. Mckenzie’s smile widens, “Awh, Valentine’s Day? That’s really sweet.”

Internally, Dean scoffs. That’s the assumption everyone makes and as usual, Dean’s more than happy to prove them wrong, “Nah, the leap year. February 29th.”

Cas’ idea. He’d joked (he better have been fucking joking) that this way they only have to celebrate their anniversary every four years. 

Ass.

“Oh.” Mrs. Mckenzie responds, “Well that’s certainly interesting. What venue have you chosen?”

At this point, Dean’s beginning to feel like a ventriloquist’s dummy, what with the way Cas is standing there, palm a constant presence on his back, staying completely silent, forcing Dean into making small talk on their collective behalf. 

He’s tempted to nudge Cas in the ribs to snap him out of it, but there’s no way of doing it subtly, so he settles for turning his smile up to eleven and hoping that Cas will suddenly remember he’s supposed to be a functioning human being rather than fucking  _ Duma _ . 

“Well, we had been hoping to rent the place on Massachusetts street. The castle? But unfortunately, that went up for sale a while ago and got purchased by some developer, so now we’ve decided to have it at our place. It’s plenty big enough.”

Dean had only been a little disappointed. 

“That sounds wonderful,” Mrs. Mckenzie says, then touches Dean on the shoulder, her gaze already on something just behind him, “Excuse me, there’s another parent waving me over. Lovely to speak to you both.”

Either she’s an excellent liar or delusional about Dean’s conversational skills.

_ Why not both? _

Cas is still standing there like Jason Vorhees in the one where he gets cryogenically frozen in space or some shit, and Dean’s been unraveling for weeks, he cannot afford for Cas to as well.

Not right now at least.

He leans in, whispers harshly, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Abruptly reanimated, Cas hisses back, “What do you think?” 

Dean thinks lots of things. Most of them probably aren’t particularly conducive to this situation.

“You’ve gone all Harpo on me because I’m wearing some panties?”

_ Cas arches his eyebrow, all ‘you already know the answer to that, don’t you’ _

Uh oh.

For some reason (an act of self-preservation), Dean feels the need to explain himself, “Cas, I was about to take them off when you burst into the bathroom like the fucking Kool-Aid man--”

“--you think that information is making this situation better?”

Not really, no.

Especially considering their long and storied history of bathroom sex.

“Look, I was just --”

“You were just what?” Cas interrupts, “Raising the stakes? Because that’s precisely what you’ve done. I was content to keep this civil, but if you want to play, then I can  _ play. _ ”

Oh shit.

Firstly, that declaration of scary intent really shouldn’t be so hot. Secondly,  _ what _ ? That wasn’t Dean’s plan at all tonight. He just wanted Cas to catch sight of blue silk, and finally put his hands on Dean’s body and his cock in Dean’s ass. 

Like a lot of things in Dean’s life, he probably coulda planned it better. 

Cas’ eyes have glazed over again, brain busy cycling through his internal Rolodex of evil, lost to plans of making Dean suffer, and really, there are probably worse ways to die. 

On the bright side, at least Dean’s epitaph can be upgraded from ‘Unwitting tool’ to: 

_ ‘Here lies Dean, _

_ Cas’ blowjob queen. _

_ He bit off more than he could chew, _

_ Which sucked harder than he blew, _

_ Bet he wished he thought it through.’ _

Fuuuuuuuck.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come chat shit to me on [ tumblr ](http://not-a-natural-born-idjit.tumblr.com/). I promise you, it's super highbrow stuff.

It’s been a month. A  _ whole entire month _ since they made that stupid goddamn bet.

Dean hasn’t jerked off so much since he got his hands on the Playboy December ‘02 issue.

_ Mmm. Dita Von Teese. _

Between that and the wedding, and the shit with Henriksen and Nick, he might be going mad. Though, at this point, it’s kind of a relief. 

It may well have been the Joker who said that  _ ‘Madness is the emergency exit’ _ , but Dean is 100% on board with the Clown Prince of Crime right now. 

Because the King? Is a total fucking dickbag. 

  
  


***

Correction:  _ Total, complete, and utter _ fucking dickbag. 

‘Cause as predicated, Cas’ threat-promise to  _ bring it on _ like a 90s chick flick is not an idle one. 

In the days following Ben’s parent-teacher conference, Cas does the following life-and-resolve-destroying things:

  * Bakes naked. One afternoon (thankfully when Leo and Mrs. C aren’t on shift), Dean strolls into the kitchen high on the scent of apples and cinnamon. He nearly cries when he sees Cas rolling out the dough on the kitchen island wearing only the flour smeared on his clavicle. 
  * Participates in a bring-your-sex-starved-partner-to-murder-your-enemies-day. Shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, Cas strangles some low-level moron who owes him money, with his bare fucking hands. Just straight up murders him. _With his hands._ Like it’s nothing. _Yeah._
  * Wears his tightest fitting suit to Claire’s parent-teacher conference. Deliberately flirts with every breathing adult in the room (Mr. Beecham might’ve died due to boredom, because he doesn’t move for the entire ninety minutes). 



So yeah, Dean’s sanity is hanging by a gossamer string, but he can wait it out because soon it’ll be his turn and then it’s  _ game over _ .

  
  


***

  
  


After Crowley, there are few British assholes Dean can stomach. Balthazar is probably the only one (and it’s not like their relationship was love at first sight either); the dude has proven himself loyal and dryly witty, and Dean can totally see why he and Cas have been good friends for such a long time.

But, if he asks Dean,  _ ‘Are you sure about this? Cassie won’t like you doing this without him’  _ one more time, Dean’s gonna stick something pointy in his eye. And it’s not as if there ain’t enough sharp objects in this tattoo and piercing shop to choose from.

Dean’s fully aware of exactly how much Cas is gonna hate-love this, and fuck if that ain’t entirely the point. 

Casually, but still jittery with nerves as he takes in all the gorgeous flash art on the walls, Dean says, “It’s a fucking tattoo, Balthazar, I’m not signing away my soul--”  _ pretty sure he did that when he agreed to marry Cas  _ “--nor is it something I need to loop him into, because I’m a goddamn adult who is capable of making my own choices.”

“Yes, darling, you’re a big boy,” Balthazar replies, idly flicking through one of the design books on a shelf next to where Dean’s standing, “But we both know that he’d want to be here for this.”

“Like I give a shit what he wants,” Dean mutters, still pissed about the latest parent-teacher conference debacle from a couple of nights ago. Cas had even managed to make a lesbian couple titter and blush like the charming asshole he is. 

Balthazar bites back a laugh, closes the thick book with a soft  _ whumpf _ , “Of course. That’s why you’re scarring yourself with his name in the language of the angels, huh?”

_ He’s got a point. _

Nah, it’s less about what Cas wants and more about making  _ him want Dean _ . 

“If you’re just going to be a dick about it--”

Balthazar holds up his hands in faux-defense, “Of course not. Me, a dick? I thought we knew each other better than that now, Dean.” 

“Yeah, we do. Which is why I feel both comfortable and confident in calling you a dick to your face.”

Balthazar grins lazily, “Probably fair. But just so you know? I’m more than happy to be here to watch you get maimed by some hack with a needle. It’s the least I can do.”

A burly man with a lot of tribal tattoos appears in Dean’s periphery, checking out his reflection in the full-length mirror next to the counter. He leans in, twisting his head to see the new ink on the side of his neck. 

Dean slants a look at Balthazar, “I see why you and Cas are friends.”

“I’m far more charming than he is though. And better looking, obviously. Some people go for that dark, brooding, dangerous look--”

“--and others go for the sleazy, Peter-Stringfellow-in-his-heyday, metrosexual look. That’s where you come in, yeah?”

“Ouch,” Balthazar staggers back a step, hand clutched to his heart, “Never mind the gun in your pants, that tongue is sharp enough to kill.”

Dean huffs a laugh, “Wow. I’m  _ so _ glad you’re here.” It’s spoken with an air of sarcasm, but he actually kinda means it a little bit. 

Seeing through Dean’s bullshit in pretty much the same way his boss does, Balthazar replies, “Of course you are. There are too many foreign-language tattoos out there that say ‘chicken chow mein’ rather than ‘love and peace’. Let’s not add you to that tragic statistic.”

Yeah, him ending up with something like ‘Chicken’ instead of ‘Castiel’ would certainly lessen the effect Dean’s going for. 

Which is Cas folding like a shitty Dollar General lawn chair.

And Dean getting laid,  _ of course _ . 

Balthazar’s here because he’s the angelology expert and Dean had known after his lesson a few months back that the knowledge in Balthazar’s otherwise empty head would come in useful. He just hadn’t realized then that it would be utilized in order to bring Cas to his knees. Literally, as well as metaphorically, if it all goes the way Dean hopes. 

It wasn’t until a few days after their stupid fucking bet, Dean had hit on the idea of getting Cas’ name tattooed. In Enochian.

Cas’ fault, ironically. 

It was right after Cas had been doing his little solo scene on their bed and Dean had to sneak off to the shower to,  _ ahem _ , relieve himself. He made the appointment a few days later on his way to meet Jack and then caught up with Balthazar regarding the design during one of Cas’ many meetings with Gabriel.

This is gonna make Cas crack, Dean knows it. 

Obviously, that’s not the only reason he’s committing to inking his skin, but it certainly is the driving force for getting it done now and without Cas here. 

His tattoo artist is a stunning brunette named Pam and Dean might have only met her once when booking the initial appointment, but he already likes her whip-smart attitude and the naughty gleam in her eye.

She sashays over to Dean and Balthazar a couple of minutes before his appointment, a clinical, clean scent layering over her smoky perfume. “Hey again, handsome,” She glances at Balthazar, looks him over appreciatively, “Is this your boyfriend?”

Dean almost chokes on his own spit. He coughs into his fist, “No, this is a friend. He’s just here for, err,  _ moral support _ \-- _ , _ ” he cuts Balthazar a  _ look _ , “--and to make sure that the tattoo says exactly what I need it to say.”

He doesn’t want to offend her, insinuate that she can’t do her job properly or something, so he inwardly winces at his poor choice of words.

_ Smooth. _

But, cool as she is, she simply says, “Smart. Come on, let’s get you inked up.”

  
  


***

Just over an hour later, Dean’s back behind the wheel of his Impala, a layer of vaseline smeared over the raised, red skin of his ribs, black Enochian letters trapped underneath plastic wrap. The ink starts a few inches down from his armpit and curves around his ribcage, finishing right underneath his left pec. It’s not the biggest tattoo he could’ve started with - apparently Balthazar and Cas go back far enough that he remembers Cas’ first tattoo was the Lovecraftian tentacles on his arm - but Dean’s already addicted to the high-frequency buzz in his bones from the tattoo needle, so he’ll definitely be going back for more in the future.

With Cas.

They’re half-way to the restaurant when Dean feels his phone vibrating against his thigh. It takes him a minute to realize that it’s not just residual buzz from the tattoo experience, but as soon as he does, he’s dragging it out with one hand, the other on the wheel. Not taking his eyes off the road he tosses it to Balthazar in the passenger seat.

Balthazar catches it pretty smoothly, mutters something about  _ ‘not being a bloody secretary’  _ but dutifully answers like one anyway, “Hello, Dean Winchester’s phone.”

There’s a pause, then, “Oh, Cassie. Your number didn’t show up for some--” He cuts off and Dean can just about make out the low rumble of his fiancé’s voice at the other end, “You what?”

More silence from Balthazar, “Well, I don’t think this is the best use of your one phone call--”

_ Fucking what? _

Dean snatches the phone away from Balthazar, gives him a  _ ‘what the fuck’ _ glare, “Cas, what’s going on?”

“I’ve been arrested,” Cas tells him, annoyed and with no preamble, “Henriksen.”

_ Oh for fuck’s sake.  _

They knew this was going to happen, had factored it into their plans somewhat, but seriously? Could the guy not have waited?

“Henriksen knows it’s three days until Christmas, right?”

“He’s aware,” Cas responds dryly, amusement lacing his tone, “I don’t think that's a consideration in FBI investigations, however.”

Shit. 

“I’m on my way,” Dean says, goes to hand off the phone to Balthazar, but he hears his fiancé’s faint voice responding, _ ‘No, there’s no point,’ _ so he slaps the phone back against his ear, tells him, “Tough shit, Cas. I’ll be there in ten,” and disconnects the call before he can argue. 

  
  


***

He drops Balthazar off at the restaurant - despite his protestations - and heads for the police station. 

When he gets there, the police chief is waiting next to the front desk like he just  _ knew _ , and he leads Dean to the interrogation room where they’re keeping Cas. It’s one of those cool, one-sided-mirror affairs from every procedural cop show ever, and Dean watches from the other side, arms folded across his chest, as his fiancé - with a calm belying the storm raging just beneath the surface - is demanding to call Dean back.

Henriksen asks why with an edge of genuine curiosity, so Cas tells him, “I assured the invitation place that we'd let them know today what color we’ve decided on. I was going to phone them this afternoon--” He lifts his cuffed wrists in demonstration, “--But I find myself somewhat indisposed. So I need to let my fiancé know, otherwise we’ll end up with the wrong shade of green and I’ll never hear the end of it.”

_ Dick. _

Who even thinks that ‘seaweed’ is a valid color choice for wedding invitations anyways? Psychopaths, that’s who.

Dean pulls the email address of their stationer up on his phone. Types out a quick few lines explaining that they’re going with the forest green bordering for the invitations.

Done with that, he taps the power button to lock his cell and looks back up at the interrogation room, where Henriksen is more than a little put out by Cas' lackadaisical attitude to getting arrested by the FBI. 

If only Cas was this blasé about the fucking wedding flowers.

“I think you might be a bit late to your wedding,” Henriksen informs him, “Like a few  _ decades _ late. He rises out of his seat, comes around to Cas’ side of the table, sits on the corner, looking down at Cas, “But don’t worry. If you cooperate, I'll make sure we send you somewhere with conjugal visits."

What an asshole.

Next to Dean, the police chief shuffles his weight impatiently, so, without taking his eyes off his fiancé, Dean tells him, “If you have somewhere to be, go. I won’t do anything stupid, I promise.”

The Police Chief dithers like he’s not sure whether to believe Dean or not. It’s a perfectly viable reaction. From one moment to the next, Dean’s never sure whether he’s about to do something dumb either.

The chief jerks his head in Cas’ direction, mutters, “Yeah, that’s what he said,” and then disappears, head shaking like a disappointed parent rather than a corrupt police officer. 

Dean sighs, grabs a wheelie chair and settles in to watch. 

  
  


***

  
  


It’s right around the time that Cas muses aloud, “I should have had you killed,” apropos of absolutely nothing that Dean realizes there _ is _ someone on this planet dumber than him and Dean’s about to be married to the daft cunt. 

How the hell are their kids so smart? It has to be down to their moms, right? ‘Cause Jesus fucking Christ. Even on Dean’s worst day, he wouldn’t dream of being this downright  _ stupid _ . 

Crazy abstinence bet notwithstanding.

Henriksen looks taken aback, "Is that a threat, Mr Novak?"

_ A promise. _

"No," Cas responds irritably, "Just an observation. A past tense one, of course.”

Henriksen doesn’t seem convinced, but then Dean wouldn’t be either. 

"Mr. Novak, this really isn’t the time to be getting cute. These are very serious charges you're up against here. Arson, murder, tampering with evidence, I could go on.”

“Don’t let me stop you. It’s clear that you enjoy the sound of your own voice.”

**_Cas._ **

Dean drops his head into his hands. Cas is never gonna see daylight again. He’s gonna get locked up in an eight by ten cell for the rest of his stupid, petty life and Dean’ll never get that dick again.

A punishment worse than death, really.

And then Dean’s gonna end up being one of those hopeless prison wives, the ones who move next door to the prison, so that they don’t have to travel the couple hundred miles every time they want a thirty-second hug with their husband.

God-fucking-dammit. Dean’s only just figured out the layout of their current house. He doesn’t want to have to move again already. And like fuck is he boxing all that shit up by himself. 

He’s selling that stupid coffee machine for one. It does everything  _ but  _ make a decent cup of fucking coffee. 

_ Every cloud. _

Henriksen slaps a rather chunky-looking manilla folder down onto the table in front of Cas. A couple of photos try to escape, corners peaking out.

Cas doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look down. 

“You’re rather cocky for someone who I’ve got a mountain of evidence against.”

"Alright," Cas leans forward in his seat, chain dragging across the table. "I'll bite. What do you have that warrants this level of drama?"

"The arson is just the tip of the iceberg," Henriksen says, "I know that it was you who had me transferred to another office. Why?"

Cas doesn't answer. 

"I'll tell you my theory, shall I? I think it has something to do with that robbery at the Kwik Bargainz and Sam Winchester. Or, more accurately Dean Winchester, your fiancé."

Well, shit. 

He’s either a better agent than they gave him credit for or somebody has been feeding him information. 

Perhaps both. Which would be unfortunate.

"He's watching us by the way, aren't you, Dean?" Henriksen glances up at the two-way-mirror and even though logically, there’s no way the agent can know he’s there for definite - is most likely trying to fuck with Cas - it still has Dean flinching. 

"Go home, Dean," Cas says, voice tight and annoyed. 

Dean has no intention of doing any such thing. He mouths a 'fuck you' at his side of the glass, holds up a middle finger. 

"So, are you going to cooperate?" Henriksen asks Cas.

"Are you going to tell me what you have on me?" Cas replies with what Dean has come to term Cas’  _ ‘thou shalt not take any more shit,’ _ expression. 

Which is his default expression, just turned up to eleven.

“I have a witness.” Henriksen supplies, thick forefinger jabbing at the folder, “Who said they saw you enter the casino shortly before it went up in flames.”

Wow. That’s like reverse psychology 101. 

All three of them know Cas wasn’t there, except one of them is naive enough to believe that it’ll somehow trip Cas up into saying where he really was instead.

This is  _ exactly _ how Dean plays (and mostly loses at) Clue. You call out what information you have along with one piece of information you don’t. So say, you have the candlestick (arson) and the library (casino) cards. You wanna find out  _ who _ it is first of all, only you have a few suspects, but you’re pretty sure that it’s either Professor Plum (Tyrus) or Mr. Green (Cas). You call out one of their names along with the information you have on each turn until either one of the cards gets shown, eliminating the other. 

Basically, Henriksen wants Cas to fill in the blanks of his own criminal case.

It’s a fact-finding mission. They literally have  _ nothing _ . 

Dean finds himself relaxing. Cas must’ve figured it out a while back, which is why he’s letting his full asshole self fly free rather than erring on the side of caution,  _ like they’d discussed _ .

“Oh?” Cas says, expression relentlessly neutral, “Who?”

Henriksen smiles like he’s caught Cas out, “Now, you know I can’t tell you that, Castiel.”

Cas slants a glance over at the mirror. He knows Dean’s here - probably even before Henriksen thought to use it as leverage.

_ Damn, he’s good at this shit. _

In fact, besides communicating and cooking, Dean’s yet to find something Cas isn’t entirely competent at. It’s as frustrating as it is hot.

“Fine,” He says evenly, “What else?”

“‘ _ What else? _ ’” Henriksen repeats, dumbfounded, “I know it was you.”

_ Yeah, ‘cause that’ll hold up in a court of law. _

Cas arches his eyebrow, apparently thinking the same thing.

_ Ooh. Here comes General Disdain and Major Disappointment.  _

Castiel repositions himself into a casual slouch, but his blue eyes are blazing and defiant as he stares Henriksen down, “Agent, let me tell you what  _ I _ know. I know that you have nothing on me. I know that you’ve dragged me down here for absolutely no reason other than to waste my time. And I know that your friend in the DA’s office will tell you I  _ hate _ people wasting my time.”

It’s a shot in the dark. A theory they’d discussed at length a few nights ago over a couple of beers and some good old sexual tension. 

Cas is apparently much better at Clue than either Dean or Henriksen.

Because of course he is. 

Henriksen balks, but quickly recovers, attempting to cover his reaction, “I have collaborated with the DA to decide what charges to bring.”

_ Bingo. _

_ Also, interesting choice of words. Collaborate. Like a collaborative effort? Except, as usual, someone else is doing all the dirty work. _

Hooo boy is the DA in trouble.

“Of course you have,” Cas’ smile is sinister as hell, “Except as we’ve just established, you have nothing. This file--” He flips open the manilla folder, spreads out the photographs of the burned interior of the casino, “-- Contains nothing that isn’t public knowledge. So, just what conclusion am I supposed to draw from this? That you were visiting the DA not to discuss existing charges, but to create them? Why?”

God, Cas is so hot like this. So fucking effortlessly dangerous, even dressed down in one of Dean’s old henleys (another attempt to rile Dean up), and a pair of dark jeans. He left the house this morning wearing a thick pea coat as well, but that’s probably been kept by the custody officer along with his other belongings. 

“Because it was you who started those fires,” Henriksen says, clinging to his lifeline, but the look in his eyes suggests that he knows he’s lost this battle. He can’t backtrack, nor can he rely on any information that the DA gave him beyond using it as a starting point, otherwise she’ll be implicated too. 

Which is why they were hoping Cas would trip himself up. 

_ A literal rookie mistake.  _

Cas’ smile grows wider, “Arson? Of the casino? I don’t think so.”

“I  _ know _ it was you.”

“Ah yes, but knowing and proving are two entirely different things, aren’t they? See, I said that I  _ knew _ you had nothing on me, that you were in cahoots in with the DA to fabricate evidence against me. But thanks to your truly appalling deflection, I can now prove it.” Elbows on the table, he points at the blinking red light of the CCTV camera in the corner, “Interesting how that works isn’t it?”

God, Dean has never seen anything hotter, honestly.

In the face of Henriksen’s stunned silence, Cas continues, “Now, according to the news, the police have a suspect in custody for the arson of the casino. With actual _ proof  _ that they did it.”

Last week, some arrests were made when an  _ anonymous _ tip was called in about a couple of shady gang members loitering outside (providing ‘security’ as per the agreement) a sketchy AF warehouse. 

Like every mafia movie ever made. 

Turns out that the warehouse was leased under a pseudonym, contained guns used in the murder of Crowley, his wife, and their employees at both the house and casino, and also stored incendiary devices similar to those used in the arsons.

Those shady, unfortunate gang members? Tyrus’ crew.

What a coincidence, huh. 

Elbows still on the table, Cas holds out his wrists, “I might not be an FBI agent, Victor, but I do understand certain aspects of the law. So, I suggest you uncuff me before I lodge a formal complaint with your director.”

  
  


***

  
  


Dean isn’t ashamed to say that he literally throws himself at his fiancé as soon as he emerges from the interrogation room, a couple of steps in front of Henriksen. 

Cas catches him around the waist with ease like he was expecting it, and Dean buries his face against Cas’ neck, familiar scent of his cologne and skin, “Jesus fuck, Cas. You scared me for a minute there.”

His fresh tattoo reminds him of its presence when he presses against Cas too hard, but he doesn’t care, just adjusts his body a little in order to relieve the worst of the pressure. 

Cas hugs him back, presses a kiss to his temple, “Did you get in touch with the invitation people?”

“Yes,” Dean confirms, muffled against Cas’ cheek, “Forest green.”

Cas hums, “I still think the seaweed would’ve been better.”

  
  


***

  
  


The holidays are much more fun this year. They all traipse over to Jess’ for Christmas dinner again, Cas brings a couple of his pies, which go down a treat, and everyone - Bobby included - is in good enough cheer that most animosity and weirdness is put to one side for the duration. They swap presents, and Dean gets a really cool vintage turntable for his vinyl records from Sam, and a glow-in-the-dark butt plug from Charlie, which she tells him is so he and Cas can play an adult version of hide-and-seek. 

He also gets one more delivery from Nick. Which Cas promptly destroys.

Of course, he  _ still  _ doesn’t get the one thing he really wants. 

(which is Cas railing him).

  
  


***

Cas has to work on the 26th - on what, Dean’s not sure, but he’s still so full of turkey and good cheer that he just waves him off with a lazy hand - so he gets to spend some quality time with his brother and Charlie, in the mansion’s gaming den for both the first time ever and the first time in fucking ages. 

In hindsight, he probably shoulda seen the trap coming a mile off. 

Admiral Ackbar would’ve been all over that shit. 

Sadly, as Dean is neither a Mon Calamari, nor entirely sober, he misses the neatly laid-out red flags a la Soviet Russia. 

“So,” His brother says casual as you like and  _ uh-fucking-oh _ , ‘cause Dean can already tell it’s about to be anything but. Sam rolls the dice, moves his pie piece to the purple hub and Charlie gets ready to ask him an arts and literature question, but before she can, Sam continues, “Jess saw Cas at the police station a few days before Christmas. Said he was brought in by an FBI agent investigating those fires a while back?”

Sam is also not subtle. He and Nick would have a ball together.

“Yeah, Dean says fiddling with the box of question cards, “He’s the -- well  _ used _ to be -- detective who had a hard-on for you when they discovered your prints in the Kwik Bargainz safe. Cas had him transferred when he stole the sample.”

“Cas did _what_?” 

Oh yeah, shit. Dean never actually told them the specifics of how Cas saved their asses. Quite literally if prison movies are to be believed.

_ Well, if this bothers them, wait until they hear who murdered Crowley. _

“Okay, so.” Dean tries to pick his words carefully, eventually setting on an abridged version of events. He takes a long pull from his beer bottle before launching into it, “Cas agreed to help with the whole us not going to jail thing, if I laundered more money for him. Originally, he wanted to just kill Henriksen and steal the sample, but I talked him down and through his connections, he got Henriksen sent away. Whilst away, he was headhunted and became an FBI agent. Now he’s back and his hard-on is for Cas.”

_ Understandable. At this point, they’ll have to form an orderly queue. _

“Jesus Christ, Dean.”

Charlie doesn’t look quite as dumbfounded as Sam with her beer bottle halfway raised to her mouth, but they’re both doing excellent impersonations of guppy fish.

“Yeah,” Dean says on an exhale, “So we’re dealing with that at the moment--”  _ amongst a million other equally shitty things _ , “-- but we’ve got it handled.”

The silence stretches out for a long few seconds.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Sam asks at the time as Charlie reads off the card, “How do you say ‘my fault’ in Latin?”

“Charlie,” Sam hisses, tilting his head in Dean’s direction, “Dean’s dealing with something here.”

“What?” Charlie says, gaze flicking between the brothers, “The man says he’s got it handled, means they’ve got it handled.” She holds her clenched hand out, jiggles it until Dean responds, bumping her closed fist.

Since their little ultimatum, Charlie’s been nothing but supportive. Which Dean suspects she probably would’ve been all along if not for Sam dragging her along on the misery ride. 

She’s been invaluable at the restaurant; efficient and precise, and even asking if there’s a job going for Dorothy. Dean and Cas are still working on it, ‘cause Dean doesn’t wanna be hauling anyone in further than he has to. 

_ Especially _ right now with the Henriksen and Nick crap.

“Yeah. What she said. Ten seconds to answer Sammy,” Dean grins, begins counting down obnoxious and loud and around a mouthful of Skittles.

Sam sighs, knowing when he’s beaten, “Mea Culpa.”

Charlie throws the card over her shoulder, “Correct! Now you get a purple cheese wedge.”

“Purple cheese wedge!” Dean crows and that starts a very mature round of innuendoes - ones that don’t make any real sense - about cheese wedges, and devolves into Charlie and Dean trying to outdo each other saying the names of cheeses in a sexy voice.

“Camembert,” Dean purrs ridiculously, as he picks up the dice and Charlie falls about laughing as if it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard.

They might be a little high on sugar and laughter, like a pair of hyperactive kids. Maybe a little drunk too. 

_ A lot-tle bit drunk. _

It’s the most fun he’s had in a while and he kinda loves them - even Sam in his bemused, stern parental role - for it. Things have been super heavy for a while and sure, he and Cas have their own brand of fucked up fun, but it’s not this sheer stupidity.

_ Thankfully. _

Dean lands on a yellow,  _ which boooooo _ , so he attempts to fudge it by pretending that the dice gave him a ten instead of a nine. Charlie slaps his hands away, cups her own hand over the pie piece to stop Dean ramming all the remaining wedges into it. 

Sam plucks a card out of the box, “Okay, are you ready for this?”

“No,” Dean pouts moodily. He’d been hoping to land on the pink square, ‘cause they’re easy.

Sam ignores him, “What leader succeeded Mikhail Gorbachev, becoming the first president of Russia?”

At least half of those words aren’t  _ actual _ words, Dean’s sure.

Dean blows a raspberry, funnels more candy into his face, “Literally  _ nobody  _ could ever possibly know--”

“--Boris Yeltsin.” Comes the low answer from the doorway of the den. Cas is there, pulling his tie out from under his collar as he crosses the room, dropping down onto the couch with a heavy sigh.

“--that.” Dean finishes, then declares to his friend and brother, “He’s with me, that counts!”

Charlie yells over him, “No, it doesn’t! Don’t be a cheater, Dean Winchester, don’t be that dude!”

A scuffle ensues where the board nearly gets upended, but instead, it’s one of the question card boxes that gets sent flying. Sam makes a despairing noise and Charlie guffaws as she kicks up her heels on the empty seat around the den table, insists that she’s not going to be the one to get down on her hands and knees.

The insinuation is that Dean should be used to it.

_ If only.  _

The next five minutes are spent scrabbling around on the hardwood floor, playing a shittier, drunker, expert-level version of 52-card-pickup. 

Still, when he makes it over to the final card which landed next to Cas’ boot, and is now pinched between his fiancé’s thumb and forefinger, it’s damn near worth it, because the look Cas is giving him is one of unfettered desire. Dean looks up through his lashes, coy and deliberately provocative. 

“You two!” Charlie interrupts their little eye-fucking session -  _ Jesus, they can’t even have that now, _ “Get a room!”

“This  _ is _ one of our rooms,” Cas tells her, gaze not leaving Dean’s face. 

“I know,” She waggles her eyebrows and leers and Dean chokes back a laugh. 

He snatches the card out of Cas’ fingers and knee-walks between his spread legs. Cas leans down, cups Dean’s face in his hands and presses a close-mouthed, but passionate kiss to Dean’s lips. When Cas pulls away, Dean makes a soft sound of want, and Cas’ private smile is filthy and all for him. 

_ Fuckin’ tease. _

“I knew you two would be hot together and I was ri-iii-ght!” Charlie sing-songs as Dean gets to his feet and ambles back to the table, where his brother is studiously trying to avert his gaze, whilst Charlie is doing the exact opposite. 

“Straightest lesbian ever,” Dean reaffirms as he flings the card at her.

“I told you, I’m an aesthetics appreciator!” 

  
  


***

  
  


They play a few more rounds of Trivial Pursuit, all three of them steadily getting drunker and stupider. Cas is drinking too, but he’s got a way to go before he catches up, so for now he’s the sensible-ish adult. 

_ Hah. _

Sam gets loud when he’s smashed and is much less of a stick in the mud, and so Dean’s not entirely surprised when his brother unnecessarily shouts across the few feet between them and Cas, “Cas! Do you want to come and join us?”

The same, however, cannot be said for Cas, who - due to his semi-drunken state, isn’t quite as adept at covering his reactions as normal - raises his eyebrows in shock. His gaze drags between Sam and Dean, not sure how - or even whether - to take this super weird olive branch. 

“‘Course he does!” Dean fills in before either his fiancé or brother has the opportunity to overthink it. He pats the empty seat with a little more gusto than is needed, gives Cas a sloppy grin, “C’mon baby!”

It takes Cas a couple of attempts to get up off the couch - the thing is low and squishy, so it’s difficult enough at the best of times, never mind several beers down - and Dean drunkenly giggles, never having seen Cas as anything less than graceful and poised. 

It’s strangely endearing and also hilarious. Like watching a swan take flight.

Beer in hand, Cas drops into the chair next to Dean. He’s deliciously rumpled, shirt unbuttoned enough to show off the tease of inked collarbone and Dean’s beginning to get why the Victorians went wild for a bit of ankle, ‘cause when you’re not getting _ any, _ everything is sexy. 

_ Seriously. _ Dean found himself thinking weird thoughts about some wrought iron railings with a rather unique design the other day. 

“Stop that,” Sam snaps like a church minister and Charlie snorts into her beer, “Stop staring at him like that. He’s on my team and I won’t have you distracting him.”

“Pretty sure he ain’t on your team, Sammy,” Dean grins lasciviously, then it sinks in what Sam’s actually said, “Hey, no! That’s not fair. You two smartasses can’t be on the same team.”

It’s not like Dean would stand a chance of winning anyways, but he’d at least like to get the opportunity to answer a question. Between Sam and Cas - the pair of fucking Bill Nyes - there’d be no way. 

“ _ Yeah _ ,” Charlie chimes in with feeling, “You can’t leave me with this dumbass.”

“Hey, fuck you.” Dean says good-naturedly, only half meaning it, “I’m smart.”

Everyone turns to Cas for his opinion. Bottle resting on his lower lip, Cas smirks, “He has his moments. Can’t bring any specifically to mind though.”

_ Dick. _

“Yeah yeah, we’ll see who’s smart and who’s dumb when we--” he gestures between himself and Charlie “-- kick your asses.”

  
  


***

Turns out that Sam and Cas are smart, Charlie and Dean are dumb.

As if it was ever in doubt.

***

It gets to about 2 am before they all start to sober up enough and get tired of one another’s company. 

Dean offers for Charlie and Sam to stay over - hell, it’s not like they don’t have the space - but both of them wave it off, insist on getting a cab to get back to their wives. 

Cas cleans up the bottles and board as Dean waits with his brother and friend in the foyer. 

“Thank you, Sammy,” Dean tells him sincerely, “Honestly. I know you don’t see eye-to-eye with him, but I appreciate the effort.”

Sam’s eyes are liquid when he says, “You’re marrying him, Dean. I see the way he looks at you - the way he’s always looked at you.” He sighs, “I get it, you know. The pair of you are crazy about each other and while I wish he wasn’t in the  _ profession _ he’s in, it’s not like any of us were squeaky clean before he came into your life either. Hell, it’s through us committing a felony that you met him.”

_ It truly is a meet-cute for the ages. Right up there with Hugh Grant throwing orange juice on Julia Roberts.  _

Dean nods, not entirely trusting his voice right now. It’s pretty much everything he’s needed to hear from his brother since day one. 

“I worry that’s all. And Jess is giving me a hard time about working for you at the shop. She has her suspicions and I--” He cuts himself off, “It doesn’t matter. You’ve got enough to deal with without me bringing you more issues.”

It could be the booze, the sentimentally, or Dean just getting soft in his old age, ‘cause the next thing he says, “You need a different job? Would that help?”

“Yeah, but I can’t take a pay cut - Madison’s meds.”

Dean waves a dismissive hand, “No pay cut.” He thinks as best he can when it feels like wading through fucking treacle, clicks his fingers when the first thing that occurs to him isn’t monumentally stupid, “Why don’t you be our security guard here at the house? You’ve got the dumb gym-bunny-bouncer look  _ down, _ it’ll be dull as fuck - not dangerous in any capacity - but most importantly, you yourself wouldn’t be doing anything that your wife doesn’t approve of. All above board and entirely legal.”

Well, as legal as it gets when you’re receiving stolen money in your paycheck. 

Sam’s entire face lights up, “Really? Because that would be-- yeah.”

“Well, maybe run it by Jess first? Don’t want her to think you’ve exchanged one dirty job for another.”

“Sure,” Sam nods enthusiastically, bangs falling into his eyes, "Thanks, Dean."

Dean turns to Charlie who’s been admiring the Spawn watercolor painting on the wall, “And if Dorothy still wants a job, maybe she could take over for Sam at the shop? I’d much rather have somebody I trust in there.”

Charlie positively beams, “That would be perfect! Same wage as me?”

“‘Course.”

The gate intercom crackles to life and a gruff voice says, “Taxi for Winchester and Bradbury.”

Dean checks the security screen to make doubly sure and when he visually confirms that the voice is who he says he is, he presses the gate button. 

He claps his brother on the shoulder, pulls Charlie into a hug. “I’ve missed you guys.”

“Us too, Dean.” Charlie says and Sam makes a noise of confirmation.

The taxi honks outside and they pull apart, say their goodbyes.

Dean watches them go and feels more at peace than he has in months. 

  
  


***

  
  


Tattoos require a lot of aftercare. Which, y’know, fair enough, you’ve wounded your skin. Dean gets it. The problem comes in when Dean has to slather himself in  _ Tattoo Goo _ with its vaguely herbal scent. Which means that he has to find something stinkier and more obnoxious to cover it up. 

That’s problem number one. Problem number two is that his fiancé likes to sleep naked - mostly because he’s a goddamn tease - and Dean can’t do the same, lest he give the game away. 

Usually, problem number two ain’t exactly a hardship (except for where it is), but right now? It’s pretty much unbearable. Especially when Cas is a multi-colored octopus in bed and Dean wakes up with far too many limbs wrapped around him like he’s in  _ The Dream of the Fisherman's Wife  _ or some shit, and the harder Dean squirms to get away, the tighter Cas holds on. 

Like even unconscious, he’s trying to make Dean suffer for his stupidity. 

The upshot of it all is that Dean has to spend far too much time in the bathroom, rubbing lotion on himself -  _ and the tattoo, heh _ \- and so of course, whenever he emerges, scurrying across the bedroom and slipping into bed, Cas is on him like an overbearing parent in an 80s movie, “Why are you wearing a shirt and boxers, why do you smell like coconut?  _ Why why why? _ ”

Ugh. It’s almost as if Dean’s behaving weird or something

Dean always has to deflect with stuff like, “Jeez, Cas. It’s just lotion. Can’t a guy jerk off in peace?” or “It’s freakin’ December man, only crazy people sleep naked.”

To the former Cas responds with an evil smile, to the latter he responds with a dry, “Dean, we have underfloor heating in every single room. It’s not even close to being cold.”

Which, yeah. He’s not wrong. 

_ Goddamn _ , all this subterfuge is tiring as fuck. 

How the fuck does Ethan Hunt keep up with it all? Though, at least that dude gets laid, so that his mind isn’t constantly on a loop of  _ dickdickdickdick _ . 

  
  


***

  
  


As it creeps closer and closer to New Years and his not-date with Nick at Pelagio’s, Dean gets antsier and antsier. 

The lack of sex - if he’s mentioned it at all - ain’t helping either.

They have a plan. It’s not absolutely ideal, but it is a move that should counter any either Henriksen or Nick make for the foreseeable future.

Problem is, they don’t know exactly how long that is, because without Dean’s old pal Madame Tabitha and her crystal ball, there’s no way of being able to call which way it’s gonna go. 

This shit ain’t nearly as much fun as the movies make it look.

“Are you sure we can afford to take the hit?” Dean asks Cas, shifting through the projections his fiancé has come up with. There are a dizzying amount of zeros on most of these papers. 

“Financially, yes. Reputation-wise? That remains to be seen,” Cas answers, not looking up from his spreadsheet. 

Reputation is almost more important than money in this business. You can always make more money, but clawing back a destroyed reputation is less straightforward. They’re taking a big risk in the hopes that it’ll pay off, but at the very least they should be rid of one half of their problem within the next few weeks. 

As for the other? Well, that’s gonna have to be a work in progress. At least until they can figure out how not to bring the entire force of the Sicilian mafia down on their heads.

A dying organization they may be, but they still have a lot of members scattered about all over the world. Cas and Dean need to tread very carefully. 

“I want you wearing a wire when you see Nick,” Cas tells him, typing away, “Or at the very least, I want Michael there.”

“Cas,” Dean sighs, collapsing into the chair on the other side of the desk, “We’ve talked about this. No wire. No guard dog.”

Cas closes the lid of his laptop, interlaces his hands atop the desk. He looks like a political candidate about to excuse himself for fucking some rent boy, rather than Dean’s fiancé about to tell him not to be so stupid.

“One or the other.”

“No.”

“Dean,”  _ you infuriating prick. _

“Cas,”  _ you overbearing asshole. _

They stare each other down, tension ratcheting higher and higher, and just as Dean thinks Cas is about to launch himself over the desk and throttle him, his fiancé grates out, “What if he tries to--”

“--touch me in my special place?”

“You think this is funny?”

“Oh yeah, Cas. I think this whole thing is fucking _hi-larious._ I really enjoy being the Bridget von Hammersmark to your Archie Hicox, that is, until I inevitably get murdered by a Nazi with his hands around my neck. But hey, at least _someone_ will be touching me, huh?” 

It’s an asshole thing to say, but Cas is being an asshole, so Dean’s just fighting fire with fire.

A muscle tics in Cas’ jaw as he reins the fraying strand of his patience in, and maybe just  _ maybe _ Dean can piss Cas off enough into a fight. 

When the silence stretches out for a beat too long, Dean adds, “Look, Cas. The wire is an absolute no-go. He gets as close as he did before, he’ll feel it straight away.” 

Cas is staring at nothing over Dean’s shoulder, but his entire body is taut, muscles locked up, jaw tight, eyes gone strangely blank in a way that means he’s beyond rational thought, and it honestly shouldn’t be as hot as it is. 

Especially when he won’t be taking it out on Dean’s ass.

“We both know he has to get close in order to think he’s  _ getting close _ .” Dean continues a little shakily, mostly unnecessarily, but  _ choo choo motherfucker, all aboard the crazy train! _ “He needs to think he’s got a chance.”

Something vicious sharpens in Cas’ gaze, “Alright,” He says eventually, voice even and terrifyingly calm, “No wire, no Michael. I have a much better idea.”

Oh. By better, Cas almost certainly means worse. 

And by worse, Cas almost certainly means _ worse for Dean.  _

  
  


***

  
  


It’s eleven days since Dean got Cas’ name inked under his skin, one until he’s meeting Nick, and he’s about done with waiting to make his move.

At this point he's just a human hard-on. It’s not ideal for anybody. Least of all Dean.

Pamela said two to three weeks for the ink to heal, but it’s no longer flaking and gross, and Dean dares literally anyone to withstand Cas when he’s on a merciless mission to make them cream their jeans.

Saints have been tempted to sin with less than what Dean’s endured over the last six weeks. There’s probably something in the bible about it. Some get-out-of-masturbating-jail-card when it comes to unapologetically seductive fuckers like Cas. 

Just this morning Cas had been wandering around their bedroom wearing his tux pants and suspenders over nothing but his skin, like the world’s sluttiest fireman or a  _ Magic Mike _ extra and Dean decided right then and there that he’s had enough of this shit. 

Literally nobody on the face of the earth would be able to withstand this kind of torture.

So, with that decided, Dean sets to plotting. It’s gonna be today. Tonight. 

Sometimes, simplicity is the way to go.

Of course, Cas being Cas, well, he senses that something’s up straight away. Still, it doesn’t matter because his defeat is imminent and there’s not a single thing he can do to prevent it.

There’s something super satisfying and calming in the knowledge. Dean loosely wonders if this is what Sun Tzu was yammering about in  _ The Art of War. _

_ Probably less about getting laid and more about life-and-death wars, but still.  _

The sentiment is the same. 

Dean hangs someone from his pulley system at the murder house (as he’s come to term it, because anyone who walks in - other than Cas and his guys - never walks back out), but his heart’s not really in it today. The man’s left shoulder pops out of place; a forty-five-degree angle where there shouldn’t be one and he howls in pain, but Dean’s barely paying attention, too busy fantasizing about Cas’ reaction to his tattoo.

And the ensuing sex of course, but it’s mostly that sweet sweet revenge that has Dean losing focus in the middle of the day. 

Cas takes a set of pliers to their captive’s fingertips and the man sobs his way through a stilted confession. Dean doesn’t hear most of it, but he gets the gist, they guy’s sorry for disrespecting Cas (and now, by-proxy, Dean), yadda yadda. 

Sick of all the whining and having the information that he wants, Cas shoots the dude in the head and orders Michael to get rid of the body. 

Once they’re alone, cleaning the pliers of blood and fragments of bone in the kitchen, Cas says to Dean, “Whatever you’re plotting, it won’t work.”

Dean’s sunny smile is anything but fake, “Not plotting anything, Cas. Just wondering what to have for dinner.”

  
  


***

  
  


Because Cas is a decent human being (murder, torture, vandalism, criminal damage, drug dealing, money laundering, grand larceny, etc. etc. aside), Leo and Mrs. C have been given the Christmas and new year period off. All paid up. He does the same with the warehouse, restaurant, and bar staff too, which is why Nick’s little new year’s date comes at the perfect time. 

And it’s why they have the house to themselves for the next few days.

They’ve got some  _ serious  _ catching up to do. 

On the way home after a long afternoon of torture, they grab some takeout, stop off at Cas’ closed bar in order to grab a couple of bottles of that fine whiskey he has to order in from Scotland especially, and settle in for a night of no touching. 

Well, Cas does. Dean has other plans.

In front of the TV,  _ Scarface _ in the background, Dean slurps his noodles, watching his fiancé out of the corner of his eye. 

Eventually, Cas gets annoyed by Dean’s unerring stare ( _ hah, see how it feels, asshole! _ ) and snaps, “What are you doing? And more importantly,  _ why _ ?”

Dean grins, pleased to see that his insouciant attitude is winding Cas up as much as it winds Dean up when Cas is at the other end of it, “You’re like,  _ super  _ pretty, Cas. I was just admiring you.” For extra assholery and funsies, Dean adds dramatically, “Can I not even _ look _ at you now?” Like this whole thing wasn’t his idea in the first place, like this imposed celibacy was somebody else’s moronic suggestion. 

Rightfully not falling for Dean’s bullshit for a second, Cas shoots him a doubtful look, communicated through the trademark eyebrow arch. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but it won’t work.”

_ Yeah, you just keep telling yourself that, babe. _

As if to prove his point - which is that Cas is the bigger tease in this relationship - Cas’ expression of aggravation quickly melts into one of mischief and Dean has that split second crush of panic of  _ uh oh _ ,  _ I’m screwed. Or not. _

Until he remembers that they’re in the dying moments of the game and Dean has  _ got this _ . 

Dean crams the last of his food into his mouth, tosses the container onto the coffee table as Cas flips through the channels on their unnecessarily large TV, going well beyond the numbers they usually stick to and into the--

\--yep, porn channels. 

“Any preference?” Cas asks; the only contribution Dean’s allowed to make here apparently. 

“Cas,” Dean protests shakily, breath caught in his throat as Cas stops on a random channel, tosses the remote onto the couch between them. His hands go to the button and zipper on his pants, lifting his hips up to push them down his thighs. 

“Dean,” Cas responds seriously, and Dean can’t remember how to breathe as his fiancé pushes his hand under the waistband of his own boxers, eyes fluttering shut and head dropping back against the couch with a moan that sounds a thousand times better than anything that’s currently playing out on screen. 

Something turns over in Dean’s stomach and he’s shifting closer on the couch without fully realizing it. On screen, one of the chicks lets out a ridiculously fake moan as she gets railed from behind, but Dean can’t take his eyes off of Cas and the way he drags his bottom lip between his teeth, the slow jerk of his dick beneath the fabric of his underwear.

“Show me,” Dean breathes, voice cracked and ruined. All notions of revenge gone out of his singular-focus brain. 

Cas’ eyes slit open, blue darkened down to black, “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.”

Cas groans, hand still working inside his boxers, stomach muscles fluttering with each cramped stroke. 

Why the fuck isn’t Dean touching him again?

Cas gracefully slides his underwear down his thighs to join his pants, and Dean zeroes in on his fiancé’s perfect cock, long, thick and hard, curved toward the flat plane of his stomach, shiny drop of precome pearling at the tip, and Dean aches with how bad he wants to taste, to touch, to feel it inside him.

“You’re so fucking hot, Cas.” 

Cas makes a hurt noise in the back of his throat, palm back around his dick again, slow drag of skin on skin. 

God, Dean  _ wants _ . 

Reading his mind, Cas lets out a guttural moan, voice plunging down into the second circle of hell when he breathes out on a rough exhale, “Touch me, Dean.” 

It’s the closest Cas has ever come to begging and ironically, it’s what has Dean coming (or not) to his senses and backing the fuck away. He has plans to make Cas beg properly, plans that won’t come to fruition if he does what Cas is asking.

_ Fuckity fuck.  _

Dean practically flings himself up and off the couch, flustered and turned on as all fuck. Cas is looking up at him through inky lashes and hooded eyes, deliciously disheveled and debauched, and practically every part of Dean is screaming to just fucking touch him already, but he can’t. They’re so close to the end of this and it’s gonna be so good. 

It’s just really hard (heh) to remember that when Cas is sex personified and Dean has the self-restraint of a dog in heat.

“Err, I’m gonna go take a shower,” He manages, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. And then he’s speeding off like the fucking roadrunner. 

_ Meep meep. _

  
  


***

  
  


Dean’s just finishing up in the shower when he hears Cas moving about in their bedroom. He’s still painfully, torturously hard, dick throbbing and blood-rich. Biting his lip, three fingers deep in his ass, Dean strokes the pad of his index finger across his prostate, sparking a final jolt of pleasure so intense that he can’t help the incoherent noise he makes, nerves lighting up with a tremulous fire, before he slides his fingers out, washes them off under the spray. 

“Dean?” Cas asks through the door, thankfully not barging his way in like he would have before this bet.

Good. It’s reassuring to know that Cas is right on the edge of his sanity and control too. 

“Just a sec, Cas!”

“Everything okay?”

Smug fuck.

“You mean besides me trying not to think about putting my hands on you--”  _ mostly around your fucking throat, you ass _ , “--yeah, everything’s good.”

But it’s about to be so much better. 

Dean steps out of the shower, reaches for his towel. He gives himself a perfunctory pat down with the Egyptian cotton, leaving enough water beading on his skin - not like Cas is gonna need the extra enticement though - and leaves it scrunched up on the floor.

Completely naked, he steps into the bedroom on a billow of steam.

Cas has his back to him, unbuttoning his shirt and shrugging it off broad shoulders. Dean advances on him slowly, for once feeling like the predator instead of the prey. There’s a static buzz in his nerves, a sort of fuzzy pleasure crackling underneath his skin the closer he gets.

“I have to admit,” Cas muses, working on his pants and sliding them down his legs along with his boxers, “I honestly thought you would’ve caved by now.”

Dean licks his dry lips, heart threatening to crack his ribs, it's beating that fast and hard, “Yeah?”

“Mmmhmm,” Cas agrees, folding his discarded clothing on a nearby chair. 

“You always thought it was gonna be me who caved, huh?” Dean asks, right behind Cas now, and Cas must sense Dean there, can’t not. “You never even considered it might be you?”

Cas finally turns then and Dean smiles lopsidedly at him. His eyes drop down Dean’s naked, wet body and back up to his face. 

Dean waits a stuttered heartbeat for the reaction. Cas’ gaze falls again and he stumbles back as though he’s been shot. He stares at the black ink adorning Dean’s skin for what seems like hours, thoroughly mesmerized and disbelieving, “You--”

“Yeah,” Dean says, small tremor building in his bones.

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Cas says wholeheartedly, voice cracking, face strangely devastated. “ _Dean._ ”

_Yeah, hopefully._

He steps forward into Dean’s space again, fingers reaching out to touch. As soon as his skin grazes Dean’s, it’s like an electrical surge pulling and binding them together and Dean’s cock jerks. 

“Cas,” Dean manages, throat thick, “I really need you to fuck me.”

“Yeah,” Cas murmurs, distracted, all higher brain function lost, as he drags the tips of his fingers over the ink again and again, like he can’t help himself. 

Dean’s fighting his own battle though; he can’t break. The touch isn’t sexual yet and he’s so fucking close to victory this time, he can’t lose now. He whimpers when Cas grips his shoulder to hold him still, unnecessary as it is ‘cause Dean’s not going anywhere.

“Cas, please.” 

“My name is in your skin.” 

“Yeah, that’s the general idea of a tattoo, Cas.”

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Cas repeats with slurred awe. “Fuck, Dean. You’ve got my name on you.  _ In _ you.”

“Yeah.”

He  _ finally _ tears his gaze away from Dean’s ribs, and when his eyes meet Dean’s they’re black as sin and twice as dangerous for your health. He looks as helpless as Dean feels and if Dean didn’t want this so damn much, he’d almost feel sorry for his fiancé. 

As it is, he does want this.  _ Badly. _

“Cas, please. Fuck me. I need you, got your damn name on me forever, come on, make me yours.”

“Yeah,” Cas mutters in a shaky voice, and then, more strongly, “Yeah, okay.”

Fuuuuuuuuck (but in a good way this time). 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pretty much a 'who can be the biggest asshole' competition.

In Dean’s experience, getting what you wish for often doesn’t live up to the hype. 

Even the  _ Pussycat Dolls _ had something to say about it.

_ Yeah _ , even Nicole Scherzinger understands that you should  _ be careful what you wish for, because you just might get it. _

Because it’s _ never  _ as good as in your head.

There have been many occasions in Dean’s life where he’s been left dissatisfied by something he was looking forward to. 

His eighteenth birthday party (what eighteenth birthday party), Christmas ‘99 (he didn’t get that first edition holographic Charizard he desperately wanted), when he discovered that - despite his love of food - he can’t cook worth a shit (even his toast has a carbon footprint).

In short, Dean’s used to disappointment. 

Lucky then, that Cas doesn’t know the meaning of the word.

“Dean,” Cas snarls, mouth a wet smear between Dean’s shoulder blades as he fucks him, possessive curve of his body over Dean’s, chest molded to Dean’s back, cock fully sheathed inside Dean, grinding in deep where their hips are flush. “You look so good --  _ so good  _ with my name on you. Feel so good around me.”

Dean would be feeling pretty fucking proud of himself for reducing Cas to nothing but ‘so good’ on repeat, if his brain wasn’t busy playing the same record, wearing it thin as Cas nails him  _ so good _ on every incremental in and out, filling him up, firm and unrelenting. 

Cas groans against the curve of Dean’s ear, mouthing at his neck, breath stuttered and humid, skittering across Dean’s sweat-damp skin. He presses himself all along Dean’s spine, crushing him to the bed, hips moving in little shuddering, overwhelmed hitches, oh so deep, and Cas’ palm slides between the mattress and Dean’s ribs, fingers splaying over his tattoo. He sounds tortured, helpless, when he breathes, “You’re mine, you’re mine,” like he can’t quite believe it.

“Yours,” Dean manages on a shivery exhale, Cas’ teeth scoring down the side of Dean’s neck as he fucks him in short, jerky thrusts that light Dean up from the inside, have him drooling against their bedspread, greeting Cas with little cants of his hips, spreading his legs wider, outside of Cas’ thighs against the tender inside of Dean’s. Eyes fluttering shut, the head of his dick catching on the sheets with every soul-deep drive of Cas’ cock, Dean gasps, “Cas, Cas,” and shudders, pink-cheeked, caught on Cas’ dick, no escape even if he wanted to. Desperately, they hump together, nothing but mindless, brainless rutting, like Cas can’t bear not to have his cock inside Dean even the split second it takes to pull out and fuck back in again.

Sucking in a shaky breath, blood rushing in his ears as the head of Cas’ cock rubs relentlessly over his prostate, riding that knife-edge of pain-pleasure, Dean arches into it, hands fisted in the bedspread, muffling his choked-off moans, breath gathering hot and damp in the fabric.

Cas fucks him in rolls of his pelvis, jagged little hitches, like he’s trying to get deeper and leave the permanent imprint of himself inside Dean’s body to match the outside, and it’s  _ so good _ , but not enough. Dean wants to get  _ fucked _ , wants to make Cas forget everything but them, this. How well they fit together. 

“Cas,” Dean pants, hand reaching back, scrabbling for Cas’ thigh, “ _ Fuck me like you mean it.” _

Dean has a split second of pleasure-addled panic when Cas pulls out, leaving him empty and waiting. Cas hoists Dean’s hips in the air, then shoves himself back in one, long smooth thrust that has Dean damn near sobbing. 

Cas is relentless, driving sharp and hard, forcing Dean to shape himself around him, grip bruising on Dean’s thighs, keeping him exposed and open, so he can watch himself disappearing into Dean’s body.

Tremors rack right through Dean , knees threatening to give out from underneath him, as Cas pushes his weight down onto Dean’s lower back, fingers splayed, cradle of his hips smacking against Dean’s ass with every thrust, stealing the breath from Dean’s lungs with the sheer force of it.

Roughly, Cas grabs Dean’s jaw, forces Dean up on his hands, makes him crane his neck so that he can tongue fuck him as well, slick swapping of spit and breath that does nothing but crank up the soft smolder low in Dean’s gut to a fierce burn, has his toes curling up tight enough to make his calves ache. 

“This what you wanted?” Cas bites against Dean’s mouth, partially venomous, entirely wrecked, “When you marked yourself with my name -- this is what you wanted?”

Dean whimpers, “Yes,” on a broken moan, his mouth slack, spine arched in a way that he’ll regret later, Cas’ thick cock spreading him wide.

“God, fuck _ fuck _ , Dean,” Cas pants, like it destroys him to want Dean this badly, like he’s as lost to the madness as Dean is, the pair of them lost for each other. 

Fist clenched painfully in Dean's hair, Cas shoves Dean’s head back into the bedspread, Dean getting a faceful of duvet again and he has to lock his knees or he’s gonna collapse. Possessive hands manhandle Dean, pinning him right where he wants him, fingertips pressing bruises into Dean’s hips and ass, nails cutting crescents into his flesh, and Dean’s voice breaks over a high whimper, face turned against the bed covers so that he can just about catch sight of the destroyed expression on his fiancé's dark-eyed, flushed face as he fucks into Dean, sound of skin on skin, the smack of their bodies coming together

Dean’s gonna come without a hand on his dick. It won’t be the first time, but he can tell already from the dull throb of pleasure gradually twisting into something sharp and hot in his belly, that it’s gonna be pins and needles, raw-edged and so intense that it’s gonna drive him into incoherency.

Not that Cas is doing much better or anything, overwhelmed and right there on the brink. Dean wants to see Cas lose it too, wants to drag him right down into oblivion.

“Cas, make me come, gonna come on your cock, make me-- _fucking_ _make me_ \--”

The dead aim of Cas’ next thrust knocks the orgasm out of Dean and his mouth shapes around a silent scream as he comes in thick ropes up his own stomach and on the bed, clenching so hard around the cock in his ass that it hurts. 

Everything goes fuzzy around the edges of Dean’s vision as he just keeps on coming, lungs staticky with every breath that he tries to pull down into them, abdominal and leg muscles cramping, and there’s a weird ringing in his ears, that he realizes a couple of erratic heartbeats later, is actually a whine coming from his own throat.

Cas makes an agonized sound as his rhythm stutters, unable to fuck through the constricting tightness as every muscle in Dean’s body locks up, and he practically sobs with slurred awe, "Holy fuck, Dean."

Once the crest of pleasure ebbs a little, leaving his body lax and warm, and only slightly delirious, Dean reaches back for Cas' thick thigh, scores his fingernails across flawless flesh, "Come in me Cas, make me yours. Need you to. Marked myself with your name so everyone knows--” He’s running his mouth, not sure of what he’s saying, just telling Cas shit he wants to hear, true shit though, shit that’ll drive him mad, and it works, because if there’s one thing Dean’s always known how to do, it’s how to drive Cas mad.

“Dean,” Cas hisses between one thrust and the next, rocking his hips in a tight, filthy-hot grind, so close to his orgasm that Dean can taste it. “ _ Fuck, _ ” and with that he’s pulling out of Dean, leaving him empty and feeling strangely vulnerable.

Dean doesn’t get the opportunity to mourn the loss, however, as with a broad palm on the wing of Dean’s hip, Cas manhandles him over onto his back, begins jerking himself off over Dean’s body, eyes intent on the ink across the skin of Dean’s ribs.

“You kinky fuck,” Dean gasps, dick twitching in a valiant attempt to rally. 

Cas is sex personified; sweat-slick, tattooed muscles flexing fluidly with every jerk of his palm, plummy head of his cock disappearing in and out of his fist on every up and down, lube and precome making the glide easier, and Dean digs his nails into Cas’ thick thigh, urging him on, “Come on me, Cas.  _ Show me _ .”

Head tilted back on a broken moan, Cas’ dick pulses, and then he’s coming with a full body shudder, thick and hot and messy, and all over Dean’s tattoo, moan caught in his throat, guttering off into a strangled growl.

Dean can’t tear his eyes away, can’t do anything but watch as Cas twists away and collapses on the bed next to him, mostly incoherent, but just cognizant enough to reach across Dean’s sternum and start rubbing his own come into Dean’s skin, like the filthy kinker he is. 

Dean’s pretty sure that’s not the kinda cream Pamela would recommend. 

(or maybe she would, who knows).

  
  


***

  
  


Both of them showered and clean (in body, not mind), they can finally hug skin to skin for the first time in weeks, and Dean plans to take  _ full _ advantage.

Head pillowed on Cas’ chest, his steadily slowing heartbeat in Dean’s ear, Dean says, “Soooooo, I won the bet.” He’s not gonna crow about it, because he’s a mature adult. 

_ Who the fuck are you kidding. _

“I wooonnn, Cas,” Dean taunts, reverting to the twelve-year-old that’s always just below the surface, “You thought you could withstand all of this?” He sweeps a hand down the length of his body, “Psht. You should know better, man.”

He curls in closer around his fiancé, sliding his thigh between Cas’, enjoying being the octopus for a change, instead of the  _ octopus-e _ . 

_ Octopussy, heh. _

Cas’ voice is a deep rumble when he replies, “Nobody likes a sore winner.”

Dean shifts, propping himself up on his forearm so he can see Cas properly. His cheeks are still flushed, hair dark with water, eyes a deep blue - as always he’s fucking gorgeous, “Interesting how both of those things are down to you. Y’know, me being sore  _ and  _ a winner.”

“Mmm,” Cas agrees, arm winding around Dean’s lower back, palm resting over the jut of his hip bone, “I can already tell that I’ve made a grave error.”

_ Only ‘cause you lost. Sore loser.  _

Oh  _ yeah _ , he’s gonna be. But for now, “No take backs! Now, I get to do whatever I want to you on our wedding night.” He boops Cas on the tip of his nose, grins when Cas slants him a _ ‘fucking really?’ _ look.

“An issue I can circumvent if we just don’t get married.”

_ Oooh, a bold move at the eleventh hour there. _

“You don’t wanna marry me, Cas?” Dean pouts, “But then how will you fulfill your destiny of becoming a mobster cliche? Y’know, living in a comically large mansion, having a super sexy wife--” he gestures at himself, “-- continuing to wear an all navy-black wardrobe like you’re always dressed for the funeral of someone you didn’t like--”

“--dark clothes don’t show blood as much.”

Why has that never occurred to Dean before?

“The point is that you have to marry me now. It’s too late. You’re done for. Your wild, partying ways must come to an end. No more snorting cocaine off of stripper asses.”

Cas sighs, resigned, “I suppose it’ll have to be off your ass only.” He palms the curve of Dean’s backside, “I knew getting married would mean sacrifices.”

Dean jabs him in the ribs, grinning, “You’re so fucking romantic.”

“It has been said. By you, mostly. I’m starting to think that I’m getting too sappy. Maybe I should be playing it more aloof and cool?”

“I think that ship sailed when you went all gooey-eyed over my tattoo.”

“I did not go all ‘gooey-eyed’,” He finger quotes, hand near Dean’s ass coming back down a little harder than necessary when he’s finished, and Dean squirms, “I was just surprised, that’s all.”

“Yeahuh. Sure you were, Cas,” Dean adopts Cas’ deep timbre, as best as he can when his own voice is still a little hoarse, “ _ ‘Fuck, Dean. You’ve got my name on you. In you.’ _ That’s pretty gooey, babe. By anyone’s standards, let alone your emotionally constipated ones.”

“Emotionally constipated?” Cas repeats, incredulous, as if his debilitating inability to let anybody in wouldn't have a crude name attached, “ _ I’m  _ emotionally constipated?”

Seeing where this is about to go and keen to stop it before it turns into a sharing and caring hour (which kinda proves Cas’ point, really), Dean says, “Tell me you love me, Cas.”

Cas sighs, disentangles himself from Dean, tries to roll away, but Dean stops him with a palm in the center of his chest, shoves him back into the pillows. “You know I do.”

“Yes,” Dean agrees, swinging a leg over Cas’, straddling his thighs, “But  _ tell  _ me.”

Cas’ hands automatically go to Dean’s hips, one sliding up a little so that he can brush his thumb over Dean’s tattoo, “I love you.”

Dean grins, smug with his second victory of the evening, “Was that so hard?”

Eyebrow raised, Cas’ gaze drops deliberately to where his dick is beginning to stiffen, “ _ That  _ wasn’t, no. But something else is about to be.”

Dean laughs, lighthearted and genuinely happy, “Like I said,  _ so romantic _ .”

  
  
  


***

  
  


Dean hasn’t been to a club since he was a teenager.

Standing here amongst the writhing bodies, pounding techno bass, and the miasma of sweat, weed, and sticky alcohol, he remembers why. 

Most couples - a fair few threesomes as well, which is new - are ‘dancing’ so close together that they’re practically mating. As Dean pushes through the crowd, he gets groped a fair few times; his chest, his back, his ass, and in one heartstopping incident, his cock. 

If he was wearing a wire, like Cas wanted, it would’ve already been ripped off him by either the sheer force of the crush of bodies he has to birth his way through or by someone’s wandering hands. 

_ Suck it, Cas. _

He finally makes it to the bar, lungs beginning to feel a little heavy with the drag in the air. This ain’t Cas’ bar, so there’s no special treatment for Dean here, so he waits (not-so) patiently for his turn as the song changes over from the techno shit to Manson’s cover of  _ Tainted Love _ . 

Realizing that there’s at least half a dozen other people in front of him, Dean turns to face the crowd, leaning back with his elbows on the bar. 

The lights sweep over the crowd of bodies in jagged patterns, multi-colored rays illuminating sweaty faces, half-dressed bodies, and then--

_ Cas. _

Just a split second of blue eyes and wild hair, of sweat-shiny, tattooed throat and a predatory stare. Dean’s heart stutters to a stop. The light moves on and the spot where Cas was is plunged into darkness again. 

Breath caught in his throat, Dean straightens up, eyes searching the crowd frantically for his fiancé. 

_ What the  _ **_fuck_ ** _ is he doing here? _

He’s gonna ruin everything. 

A hand from the crowd reaches out to grab him and Dean jerks his arm back, almost knocking a couple of beers out of a nearby dude’s grip.

The hand belongs to someone Dean doesn’t recognize. A burly fucker that holds his palms up -  _ I ain’t gonna hurt you _ \- and then very slowly, like Dean’s a spooked animal, leans in close enough to make himself heard over the pounding music.

“You’re here for Nick aren’t you? Come with me.”

Dean hasn’t got his drink, but there are more pressing matters now. Namely, pulling Nick’s focus so that he doesn’t realize Dean’s psychopathic fiancé is here. 

He lets the guy grasp him by the bicep and propel him through the crowds to the stairs leading up to the VIP area. 

With one last subtle glance over his shoulder, Dean scans the crowd. He can’t see Cas anywhere. Maybe he dreamt it.

_ Nightmared it, more like. _

He follows the burly goon up the curved staircase, all the while feeling like he’s on the way to his execution or some shit. 

_ Could be if you don’t play this right. _

Nick is sitting there in the center of a huge leather couch - white and tacky ( _ why do gangsters have such shitty taste _ ) - surrounded by more yes men and simpering women not wearing much and very clearly only in it for the paycheck. 

For the millionth time since Dean started fucking Cas on the regular, he is so thankful that Cas has zero interest in living up to the stereotype, ‘cause Dean would be bored shitless of this kinda lifestyle mere days in.

Sure, it looks good in the movies, and there have definitely been days in Dean’s life when he would’ve liked to have fallen into a huge pile of cocaine a la Tony Montana (mostly for school-related events), but every single day? 

Nah. 

Dean’s barely coherent most of the time anyway, this kind of life would strip away the last of his lucidity. 

Oh, and speaking of rationality (or lack thereof), Benny’s here. 

Fan-fucking-tastic. Because this situation could not possibly get any more loaded.

Any second now, Cas is gonna come storming up those stairs, all ‘say hello to my (not so) little friend’ and it’ll be a bloodbath. 

(Dean’s brain might be stuck on  _ Scarface  _ from last night)

Sure, it’d be hot for the five seconds it would take the mafia to catch up with them. And then it would be cold. Really cold. Like  _ sleeping with the fishes _ cold. 

Of all the ways Dean is content with dying, concrete shoes ain’t even in the top ten. 

At Nick’s insistence, the girls make space for Dean on the couch, eyeing him cautiously, no doubt wondering who he is, what power he holds, whether they can fuck him for a taste of it.

Benny’s watching him closely too, right arm still in a sling and Dean flashes him a grin that’s all teeth and no humor. 

He squeezes in between Nick and a girl who introduces herself as  _ Candy _ . Yeah, like that stripper name hadn’t died out with the 90s. Though, this chick probably wasn’t even alive then, so she can be excused from that knowledge.

_ Wow. That’s kinda really depressing. _

“Dean,” Nick says low and pleased, breath hot against Dean’s ear, “Good to see you again.”

Dean forces himself to smile, “Yeah.” 

He’s not gonna lie and say  _ you too _ . 

Nick’s arm stretches out along the back of leather, all Danny in Grease and Dean is more than happy to be Sandra Dee and knock his fucking nuts back up into his body if he tries anything. 

_ No. Remember why you’re here. Gotta let him touch you. _

Dean barely suppresses a shudder.

If Nick notices Dean’s less-than-willing, don’t-touch-me posture, he’s not saying anything. Though it’s pretty dark up here and although the music is muted a little, it’s still distracting enough.

But goddammit, Dean’s a better actor than this. The last couple of times he’s managed to make Nick believe that he’s genuinely interested in him, but tonight? His head’s not in the game.

_ Fucking Cas. _

“You look good,” Nick tells him, hand curving around Dean’s shoulder, “I like that you dressed up for me.”

_ Oh wow. _

Sure, Dean made a point of not wearing holy jeans and his ugliest shirt, but he didn’t put any specific thought into the clothes he chose beyond,  _ ‘well these will cover up the socially expected amount of my body’ _ . 

Cas on the other hand? Cas watched him like a hawk as he dressed, harassing him no less than three times when Dean was buttoning up his shirt;  _ “Are you sure that is appropriate? What about the red one? Why are you dressing like a lumberjack?” _

If he wasn’t a gangster, Dean suspects that Cas would make an excellent sassy gay™ in a mediocre rom-com. He’d be the best thing in it of course. Much more interesting than the actual love interest.

Another generic dance track starts up, then the volume gets lowered for the time it takes the DJ shouts out over the PA system, _ “New year is almost upon us folks! Less than an hour to go! Let’s partyyyyyyy!” _

Dean absolutely does  _ not _ want to be spending his new year surrounded by these people. If he’s gonna get home to Cas and tear him a new one for interfering, he needs to make an effort, so he says, “Thanks.”

_ Oh yeah, that’s it. Reel him in with your monosyllabic dry wit.  _

“So, what’s your decision? Are you going to come and work for me?” Nick squeezes Dean in closer, “Or is it going to be all-out war?”

It’s the first time Nick’s explicitly laid it out like that. Usually, he at least attempts a veneer of civility, but that’s gone now and Dean distinctly feels like Jasmine in that massive egg-timer full of sand.

He’d wear the hell outta that outfit too.

_ Focus. _

So. Apparently Cas’ acquiescence is no longer an option. But then, Nick’s not  _ entirely _ stupid. He likely knew it never was.

The words taste like ash in his mouth, but Dean manages to get them out anyway, “I’m going to come to you.”

Nick grins, triumphant, “A sensible decision." He turns to one of the handful of people surrounding them, a bland, bored man in an ill-fitting suit, “Champagne! I have a new business partner!”

It can’t be this easy. It never is.

Dean has to ask, “You trust me just like that?”

Nick’s grin widens, “Of course not, but you still haven’t told him about my proposition, have you?”

Dean shakes his head.

“I knew you wouldn’t,” He accepts a glass of near-overflowing champagne without looking away from Dean, “So there’s something in you that wants to be sitting right here next to me,” He hands off a glass to Dean, “Rather than standing down there with him.”

Dean physically reacts to the news that Nick knows Cas is here, can’t not.

Nick doesn’t miss it (but he does misinterpret it), “Relax. I had my guys  _ eject  _ him.”

Fuck. 

Dean fights to keep any sort of reaction off his face, particularly concern for Cas. It’s not like the dude can’t look after himself, and he’s racked up a fair number of injuries in his time, but still. The thought of Cas getting hurt makes Dean’s heart ache in his chest. 

“And now that you’re with me?” His arm slinks around Dean’s shoulder, no pretense at propriety this time, “You don’t ever have to worry about him again.”

Dean downs the entire glass of champagne. As he wipes his mouth on the back of his forearm, he sees Benny staring at him, concern in his eyes. 

Steel in his spine, Dean deliberately brushes his mouth against the shell of Nick’s ear when he says, “You promise? Because if you’re good to me, I can be good to you.”

Even in the low light, Dean can see the way Nick’s eyes darken, “How good?”

Dean’s grin is a wicked one, “I can get you his counterfeit operation.”

Something flits across Nick’s features, then he’s leaning in and saying, “I can just take it.”

“Not without bloodshed you can’t. And bringing a shit load of attention down on yourself. The cops are in his pocket, not yours. So they won’t look the other way for you if you create a big mess. You need to own that shit legitimately to have a hope of making it work.”

Nick appraises Dean, eyes tracking over every feature of his face, snagging on his mouth. Dean can do this, so he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, tilts his head ever-so-slightly.

Impressed (or at the very least - turned on) with what he finds, Nick’s expression shifts into familiar territory, “Beauty and brains. No wonder he’s so keen to marry you.”

Dean doesn’t quite cringe, but it’s a close thing. 

“Okay, how? How will you get me his counterfeit operation?”

Dean passes off his empty glass to a random pair of hands, lifts his hips up, and slides out the folded document from his back pocket.

He unfolds it, holding up the piece of paper that Cas signed for him the other day, close enough that Nick can see it. “I got him to sign over the counterfeit business to me as an early wedding present. It’s mine. To do with whatever I want.”

Cas (well now, technically Dean) owns that warehouse. Owns the equipment inside. It's practically untouchable due to his deal with the police and alongside that, it's _disgustingly_ profitable. Around fifty percent of Cas' profit comes from his money-laundering and counterfeiting, so this is going to be a serious hit to their finances during this little fuckaround with Nick.

It was theoretically sensible of Nick to want Cas to hand it over to avoid war. Practically? Well, Dean would say that Nick will live to regret it, but he won’t because he won’t be alive much longer.

Nick’s eyes widen, gaze darting between Dean and the sheet of paper, “Fuck, I knew you’d be magnificent.”

“Beauty and brains.” Dean affirms, refolding the sheet of paper. “I’ll sign it over to you whenever you want. On two conditions.”

“Which are?”

“I need time. He’s seen me here tonight, I have loose ends that I need to tie up and in order for everything to run smoothly, I’ll have to convince him that this was just business.”

Nick considers this for a minute, says, “You’re asking to go back to him?"

Dean nods, “I just need a week or so to get a few plans in place. It’s not as easy as simply leaving him. I need to protect the people I care about.”

He doesn’t mention his brother, friend, or son by name - because that’s a douche thing to do and the thought of this jerk off even  _ thinking _ their names makes Dean irrationally angry. Plus, he’ll know all about them through Benny, the fucking dick.

Eventually Nick responds, “Okay. If you want to do that, I’ll need a good-faith gesture.”

It’s a smart move. Dean and Cas were prepared for it. “I’ll sign it over to you right here and now. Is that good faith enough?”

“Yeah,” Nick breathes, awed, like he can’t believe his luck.

Shame he was never taught that if something seems too good to be true, it probably is. 

_ Be careful what you wish for, ‘cause you just might get it. _

Dean continues, “Second condition is that I get to show you around the operation. The workers know me and if we’re going to do this smoothly then it’s best if I’m the one to ease them into it. They like Cas, he’s been good to them. They’re good to him in return, and they’ll be a bitch to replace if we screw this up.”

The workers won’t be there when they visit. 

Before Dean can do much other than turn his head at the last second, Nick is diving for his mouth, smearing wet across his cheek instead. Dean glimpses Benny’s wide-eyed look and Dean wants to fucking punch the stupid bastard, because this is at least eighty percent his fault and he doesn’t get to act the innocent little puppy now. 

If Nick’s surprised by Dean’s reluctance to kiss him, he doesn’t let it show, simply straightens himself up, says, “Okay, I get it. We don’t know each other that well yet.”

“This is strictly business.” Dean tells him firmly, but makes sure to add a little inflection at the end to denote that he’s not  _ totally _ sure, “Whatever you think about mine and Cas’ relationship, I did care about him.”

“Past tense,” Nick notes with a slimy grin. “You  _ did  _ care about him.”

“Yeah,” Dean confirms, “I just care about money and power an awful lot more. And if you’re not going to be an overbearing, overprotective asshole, then that’s merely a bonus.”

Nick looks satisfied, “Seems as though your ex knew you better than you thought, eh? Not that there’s anything wrong with wanting to get control over your life through the torture and murder of others. Hell, it’s the reason the majority of us got into this lifestyle, but it is nice to see you embrace it so readily. I honestly thought you would take a bit of coaxing.”

Dean feels nauseous. He probably should’ve been a little bit more sensible about the champagne. There could’ve been  _ anything _ in it. He doesn’t think there was, but he does need to get the fuck out of here  _ now _ , “No coaxing necessary. Do you agree to my terms?”

“I’d be a fool not to.”

That’s one way to look at it.

“And you’re no fool, are you?”

He’s certainly not as smart as he thinks he is though, ‘cause the next thing he asks is, “Are you sure you won’t rethink a more  _ personal _ relationship?”

_ Yes. 100% _

“I’m not saying never, but I don’t want it to be about that. At least initially.”

Nick nods, “Alright.” He looks around, holds out his hand, “Anybody got a pen?”

***

As soon as Dean gets outside, he’s sucking in fresh air into his lungs like a horror movie character after running away from the bad guy. 

Which is of course, when the bad guy always catches up to them and chops them into tiny pieces.

Before Dean can react, there’s a broad fingered hand pressing over his mouth and he’s getting dragged into the shadows of a neighboring building, out of sight of the security cameras. He gets shoved against the rough brickwork of an out-of-operation papermill by a firm grip around his throat.

His fight or flight kicks in as that sweet sweet air becomes harder and harder to pull down into his lungs, and he’s Dean fucking Winchester, soon-to-be-husband of Castiel fucking Novak, there’s no way he’s not fighting.

He kicks out at his assailant, catching him in the shin and the fucker grunts in pain, “Dean, what the fuck--”

_ Cas? _

The grip around his throat loosens and Dean can finally get a proper look at his would-be-murderer.

It’s Cas.

“What the fuck do you mean, ‘ _ what the fuck’ _ ?” Dean demands even as he’s checking his fiancé over for injuries from Nick’s guys. Other than the smudge of a bruise forming along his jawline (and Dean’s contribution on his shin), there’s nothing. Though the same probably can't be said for Nick's guards, “I could’ve seriously hurt you or something!”

Castiel arches an eyebrow, all  _ ‘you’d be welcome to try, but we both know you’d fail’. _

The, _ ‘just like Nick’s guards’  _ isn’t explicitly acknowledged, but Dean gets it anyway.

And so, yeah, maybe Dean couldn’t have kicked Cas’ ass at their first meeting, but now? Now, Dean’s pretty sure he could hold his own against Cas.

_ Could be a fun experiment.  _

But Dean’s pissed and riding the knife-edge of adrenaline, shaky and throat-thick, so he barrels right on, “You stupid asshole, what the hell are you doing, hanging around out here like some sort of fucking serial killer?”

Seriously, Jeffrey Dahmer wants a word, ‘cause Cas straight-up stole his MO.

“And what the freewheeling fuck were you doing in there? Like Michael fucking Myers staring me down in the crowd!”

Dean’s really going all-in on the serial killer analogies tonight. 

There's an amused lilt to Cas' voice when he says, “Does that mean you’re Laurie Strode, because she was my first crush.”

_ Ass. _

Though it really does explain  _ so  _ much. 

“Ohhhh, you’re a funny fucker aren’t you?” Dean would punch the bastard if he didn’t think all he’d get out of it is bruised knuckles, “Cas, you could’ve ruined everything for us! I haven’t let that slimy fucker touch me and manhandle me just for you to fuck us over at the finishing line!”

“Dean,” Cas crowds in closer, not a spare inch of space between them, mouth hovering near the shell of Dean’s ear, “Are you done?”

“No,” Dean protests, but with the way Cas’ body is pressing him into the brickwork, he thinks he might be. "He saw you."

Cas makes a satisfied noise in the back of his throat, “He was supposed to." At Dean's bemused pause, breath hot on Dean’s neck, he adds, "More realistic, no? I turn up and play the jealous lover. Push you further into his arms.”

“Cas,” Dean manages around the sudden lump in his throat, “I don’t think--”

“-- Lucky for us, I do,” Cas says, knee wedging between Dean’s. “And he saw your rather visceral reaction to me being there.”

What.

Cas continues, hands sliding underneath Dean’s sweat-damp shirt, palms riding the bumps of his spine, “He knew you weren’t in on it, Dean. Otherwise he wouldn’t have invited you up. He assumed - as I knew he would - that I had followed you there and that you were rather upset about it.”

_ Well.  _

Now that Cas spells it out, yeah. It mostly makes sense. Even if that sense is relative and Dean is Cas’ brand of crazy.

Dean slaps him in the chest, “You’re an asshole.”

“Mmm, “ Cas agrees darkly, fingers skating across Dean’s ribs - over the tattoo, the possessive fuck - before slipping down between the tight crush of their bodies, “But I’m also always right.”

“Modest too, huh.”

Cas’ mouth twitches against a smile, “Modesty is for lesser mortals.”

It’s hard to argue with that, really, so Dean doesn’t, just swallows hard as Cas inches closer to his groin, “He thinks he’s gonna protect me from you.”

“Oh?” Cas asks, heel of his hand rubbing at Dean’s hardening dick through the rough denim of his jeans, “Do you _feel_ as though you need protecting from me?”

Dean grits his teeth, arousal hot in his veins, “Cas, as much as I would  _ love _ to do this here and now, don’t you think it’s a bit risky?”

Sure, they’re obscured from the view of the cameras, but anyone could come spilling out of the alleyway exit. Though, it does seem unlikely, what with the muffled countdown beginning back from thirty.

_ Twenty-nine, twenty-eight, twenty-seven... _

Cas ignores him, unbuttoning Dean's pants and yanking the fly open, palming the length of his cock, squeezing gently through black cotton.

“Cas,” Dean moans, head connecting with the wall, “Please.”

_...Twenty, nineteen, eighteen... _

“Please, what? Stop, continue? You’re going to have to be more specific.”

_...Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen... _

“Suck my dick.” It’s half instruction, half shitty come-back.

_...Ten, nine, eight... _

Still, when Cas folds to his knees there and then in a gross alleyway outside their enemy’s club, Dean’s not gonna protest. 

And then when Cas takes Dean’s dick into the warm wetness of his mouth, right as the clock strikes midnight, Dean doesn’t need to have his eyes open to see fireworks. 

_ Fuck _ . He’s certainly starting the new year as he means to continue it. 

  
  


***

  
  


There aren’t many rules in the criminal underworld. The ‘honor amongst thieves’ thing is bullshit; people betray each other all the time. Money and power are effective motivators, so anybody in this business would happily step over their bleeding-out grammy in order to get a slice of either. 

It’s literally what Nick’s hinged his entire perception of Dean on, after all. 

However, the one steadfast rule that holds true from a lot of the mob movies is that you don’t kill federal agents. At least not without a decent plan in place.

And a lot of balls.

Luckily, Cas has both.

“Why am I here?” Henriksen asks, watching Cas rolling out some chilled dough in their giant kitchen, sensibly wary of the known murderer brandishing a rolling pin.

“I’ve come across some information that I thought may be of interest to you.”

Cas is being modest. He says ‘come across’ when he actually means ‘manufactured’

Dean drums his fingers against the island's surface. Sitting next to Henriksen on the stools across from Cas, he can see how tense the agent is.

He’s right to be cautious. After all, he’s in the grandiose home of two men he wants behind bars, with a quite frankly  _ tedious _ obsession.

Seriously, who even holds onto a grudge for that long? On anyone else it would be a petty vendetta, but on a law enforcement agent, it’s _normal_. 

“Yeah?” Henriksen asks, clearly skeptical.

“Well,” Castiel says, sprinkling some flour onto the dough, folding it in half and rolling it out again, “You seemed hellbent on making your first bust a big one. I’d like to help you.”

“Why?”

Fuck, it’s like going on a car journey with the kids - constant fucking questions. Any second now there will be a bathroom break and a snack grab at a 7/11.

Though, Dean could use a snack right about now, ‘cause this apple pie is smelling  _ good _ and Dean’s hungry AF.

Muscles bunching underneath his shirt as he works, Cas answers, “Because if I give you the one pulling all the strings then maybe you’ll stop hounding me.”

Henriksen’s not dumb, nor is he ignorant of their activities, thanks to the DA. Who will be getting her comeuppance in due course. One problem at a time, “The one pulling all the strings - you’re going to hand yourself in then?”

And Henriksen is a  _ big  _ problem.

Cas slants Dean a look, one that says, _ ‘I appreciate his humor about as much as I appreciate yours’ _ , which Dean resents, honestly. “No, but I know where the leader of the Kansas branch of the mafia will be in a couple of days.” 

Silence. 

Dean doesn’t need to look at Henriksen to know how he feels about Cas’ offer. No matter how well organized, ruthless, or downright dangerous other criminal enterprises are, there’s nothing quite like being able to claim, ‘I single-handedly took down a branch of the Sicilian mafia’ on your CV. Especially for a determined rookie like Henriksen.

Of course, just as the agent is figuring out how to formulate his response, well, that’s when the kids choose to come pelting into the kitchen at full speed, excitable with the sugar Dean stuffed them with earlier in the hopes of distracting them. 

Cas, the fucking oracle that he is, warned him. Dean, the fucking idiot that he is, didn’t listen. 

His fiancé catches his eye, unbearably smug like he’d been a couple of nights ago outside of  _ Pelagio’s _ .

_ Probably not helpful to remember that right now. _

Still, in the wake of Dean’s bet victory, Cas being perpetually right about pretty much everything and an unbearable asshole with it, somehow loses its sting.

Mostly because he  _ wasn’t _ right about who was going to cave first.

_ Hah _ .

“Daaaaaad!” Ben yells, flinging himself at Dean’s back, heedless of the strange, bemused man in their kitchen, “I’m bored.”

Jesus Christ, his son is getting big - taller and physically stronger - as he hangs onto Dean like a fucking hyperactive monkey, legs kicking and swinging, arms looped around Dean’s throat, practically strangling him in a very specific form of torture. Because just last night Cas had decided to try out what he termed Dean’s ‘breath play kink’ since he decided Dean must have one, thanks to his supposed reaction to Cas’ hand around his throat up against the paper mill.

Again, turns out he wasn’t wrong.

Which means that Dean's throat is still tender, voice a little hoarse, and therefore it’s not an entire bushel of fun to be having a dead weight hanging off of it.

Claire throws open the refrigerator door, stares inside, “Has Leo left me any of that chicken and bacon pasta bake? He promised me last time that he would.”

They’ve got another  _ week _ of this. Christmas break is far too long.

“How can you be bored?” Dean asks Ben at the same time Cas tells Claire, “It’s on the top shelf, but you have to share it with Dean.”

“Awh,” Claire whines, “But he eats all the bacon bits!”

Damn right he does. They’re the best part.

“Because I have nothing to do,” Ben whines and it blatantly isn’t true, “Come play with me, dad. I haven’t totally thrashed anyone at Gran Turismo in  _ ages _ .”

_ Get rekt, dad. _

Cas doesn’t even bother to hide his smirk at Dean getting roasted by their kids, “I’m sure Dean would be happy to play with you, Ben. Though maybe you could take it easy on him - it must be such a difficult cross to bear, being so thoroughly awful at video games.”

They all laugh like it’s the funniest thing ever and Dean mimics along, shooting daggers in Cas’ direction.

Assholes, the lot of them.

He unhooks Ben’s arms from around his neck, makes sure that he slides back to the ground safely, before turning around on the stool, palm on his son’s shoulder, about to impart some wisdom. 

Henriksen is watching everything, eyes darting between the four of them, not missing a detail. 

_ Good. _

“You know what Benjamin?” Dean says, solemn and full of gravitas, “I used to be amazing at  _ Mario Kart  _ when I was your age. Nobody - and I mean  _ nobody _ \- could come close to my performance on the 1992 version of Rainbow Road.”

“Appropriate.” Cas mutters under his breath, greasing the pie pan with butter.

“Silence from the peanut gallery!” Dean tosses a nearby dish towel at Cas’ face. Which of course, he catches, the coordinated fucker.

It has the desired effect though; their kids laughing and Henriksen losing the tense set to his shoulders. It’s important that he views them as humans and parents. He needs to see that they have something to lose too. 

Dean pointedly clears his throat, turns back to Ben, “What I’m trying to say, sweet child of mine, is that you too will end up this out of touch and utterly useless at video games.” 

Ben looks stricken, so Dean continues, “It’s all in the genes, you see. Pity for you that you didn’t get Levi’s, instead you got sweatshop knock-offs.”

Cas outright laughs then and even Henriksen chokes back a snort. 

“So, y’know, just think on, kiddo.” Dean ruffles Ben’s hair, satisfied that his work here is done - his child is aware of the ravages of old age and understands that one day he’ll suck at everything he once loved, too. 

_ Ah. The joy of realizing that getting old ain’t all freedom and doing shit you want. _

Forkful of pasta halfway to her mouth, with a terrified expression on her face, Claire says, “Wait, is that gonna happen to me too?”

“No,” Ben interjects sulkily, “Cas is actually  _ good  _ at video games.”

_ Oh, charming. _

“So was Dean,” Claire points out.

“According to him,” Cas remarks smartly, spooning the apple and cinnamon mixture into the pie casing.

_ Fucker. _

O-kay, that’s enough of the  _ ‘let’s all rag on Dean’ _ portion of the day.

“Alright, you know what,” Dean claps his hands, “We can go out to eat later, maybe catch a movie or something, but for now we have a guest, so you guys need to skedaddle. We’ll come get you when we’re ready to leave.”

Ben huffs, Claire recovers the pasta with the foil and shoves it back in the fridge, “Can we pick the restaurant?” 

“No,” Dean informs them airily, “ _ I’m _ picking, because you’re all mean to me.”

The hopeful expression fades in their eyes and Dean grins. 

“ _ Yeah _ ,” he nods, mind racing to conjure up the worst possible foods to gross them out, “I’m thinking seafood. Somewhere with octopus. Maybe some ceviche? Oooh, what about Turducken?” Ben makes an absurdly exaggerated puking sound and Dean keeps going, “No? Um, I know - Chitlins! Rocky Mountain oysters! So you’ve got that to look forward to now.”

They’ll probably just end up grabbing some burgers or something, but it’s  _ fun _ to watch their faces scrunch up in distaste. The two of them exchange disgusted glances and then traipse out of the kitchen, muttering to each other about lame parents and that there’s no way Dean was  _ ever  _ good at video games. 

Little shits.

“Cute family,” Henriksen murmurs, twisted around on his stool, watching the kids go. “Be a shame if one or both of you got locked up.” He turns to look back at Dean and then Cas, “Their moms still around?”

_ Big fucking yikes. _

“You’re relentless, aren’t you?” Dean blurts, holds his hand up to silence Cas, “I mean, here Cas is giving you the mafia on a fucking plate and you’re still after him?”

“I’m after both of you, technically.”

Oh,  _ well then _ .

“But,” The agent continues, “Whilst I don’t make deals with criminals, if you have information on an organized criminal enterprise, it’s your civic duty to share with law enforcement.”

Dean looks to his fiancé for guidance on how to handle this, but Cas just inclines his head ever-so-slightly, content for now to let Dean take the reins, while he tackles the intricacies of baking. He slices the remaining circle of dough into thin strips, begins layering them into a lattice crust.

“Well,” Dean says slowly, attention snapping back to Henriksen, “We’re not going to make your job easier if there’s nothing in it for us.”

Of course, if they give it up like a girl on her prom night, he’ll start to suspect. They’ve got to at least pretend that Henriksen taking this bait isn’t  _ exactly _ what they’re hoping for. 

Dean’s definitely getting a head for all this Machiavellian bullshit now. 

It helps that he’s learned from the best.

Fingers drumming on marble, Henriksen muses, “I could always arrest you both for obstruction of justice.”

“Nah you couldn’t.” Dean counters, only mildly distracted by Cas and his capable hands, “We might just be blowing smoke up your ass for all you know. Nothing would stick.”

“He’s smart,” Henriksen hikes his thumb at Dean, even as he directs his words at Cas. 

“I’m aware,” Cas replies, crimping the edges of the pie with the prongs of a fork. “You think I’m with him just because he’s pretty?”

Henriksen shrugs, “Well, yeah.”

It’s probably a good thing that Henriksen doesn’t seem him as much of a threat, but the fact that nobody really does? It’s beginning to grate a little.

Who the fuck does he have to kill to get a little respect around here?

Cas half-turns to the oven, switching it on. He grabs a bowl and an egg, “You wouldn’t be the first or the last to make that mistake.” He casts a  _ look _ in Dean’s direction, blue eyes always seeing more than Dean’s entirely comfortable with.

He does seem to be the only person who’s ever really  _ got  _ Dean. 

Dean’s not sure what that says about either one of them.

“Mistake, how?” Henriksen asks casually, ever the shrewd fucker. 

Cas doesn’t open that can of worms, simply cracks the egg on the edge of the bowl, says, “Do you want this information or not? Because I can just as easily keep it to myself and continue to evade your attempts to trip me up.”

Pride goeth before a fall, but in this case, it’s at least 99% bald-faced truth and the three of them know it. 

“I’ll need to run it past my supervisor,” Henriksen hedges, watching Cas’ face closely, for any micro-expression that’ll give him away. 

“Do it,” Cas says with an eyebrow raise, the challenge evident. He brushes the whisked egg over the top of the pie crust, “The more agents in the know, the better, as far as I’m concerned.”

Henriksen seems surprised. Which is fair enough - a normal trap would involve as few agents as possible; luring a single, hungry-for-the-glory agent to a quiet space, then pulling a plastic bag over their head, dumping their body in the wetlands. 

But this ain’t a normal trap, this is a  _ Dean Winchester  _ special trap. 

“Okay,” Henriksen says eventually, stumbling right into it, “Tell me.”

  
  
  


***

  
  


Dean’s just about to be on his way to drop Ben off at Lisa’s, swinging the car keys around his index finger when Mrs. C catches him propping up the wall, whistling outside Ben’s bedroom. 

“Ben, your mom will straight-up murder me if you don’t get a move on!” Dean shouts as Mrs. C approaches. Lisa’s already going to pitch a fit about the amount of sugar Dean’s given him over the last few days, better not to pour gasoline on  _ that _ fire. 

Cas is in his office with Gabriel - _ again,  _ and if Dean were a mistrustful person, he’d be seriously suspicious that the pair of them are either plotting something or having an affair.

Fortunately, there’s zero chance of the latter, and as for the former? Well, they’re definitely up to something, but it works out in Dean’s favor, ‘cause whilst Cas is holed up in there, distracted, Dean can take a bit of extra time when he drops Ben off, and go pick up some stuff for their wedding night.

He’s got a couple of discreet shops to visit, so he’s thankful for the excuse to leave the house without the fucking third degree and a lecture about ‘ _ be careful, Dean, Nick could have people watching you, blah blah blah.’ _

Jesus, Dean gets it. He’s done most of the legwork, for fuck’s sake. But sometimes, you just have to buy wedding lingerie without your fiancé's henchman breathing down your fucking neck.

Mrs. C smiles warmly up at him, “You seem cheerful this afternoon, Mr.--  _ Dean _ .”

Dean flashes her a bright smile in return, pleased that she’s finally getting the hang of calling him and Cas (and now Sam) by their first names. It’s taken a lot of persuading, “Sure I am Mrs. C. I’m a cheerful person.”

She pulls a comically skeptical face, but wisely doesn’t say anything more on the topic. Instead, duster in hand, she sidles up closer to Dean, says in a hushed voice as though Cas might be hanging around in a dark corner like fucking Dracula, “M-- _ Castiel  _ was asking me some strange questions this morning.”

“Oh?” Dean says, one eye on his kid shoving clothes and Switch into a bag to take to his mom’s, “What kind of questions are we talking about here?”

Though Dean already has a pretty good idea. And he’s not entirely pleased. Castiel - the asshole - promised not to do this. 

“Whether I’d seen anything  _ unusual _ on my cleaning rounds.” 

Uh-huh. Which means Cas is fishing to find out what Dean’s got planned for the wedding night.

_ Oh Cas, you control freak.  _

Providentially for Cas - who might’ve otherwise found himself on the receiving end of the old whoopee cushion on a chair during an important and  _ very serious _ gangster meeting - Dean is annoyed, but he’s mostly absolutely  _ delighted  _ that Cas has been spinning his wheels.

“What did you tell him?” 

“Nothing, of course.” She grins conspiratorially, “He didn’t ask if I was holding anything for you.”

Cas’ mistake, really. 

‘Cause it was pretty bold of him to assume that their housekeeper who has always favored Dean wouldn’t be on Dean’s side in this. Also bold of him to assume that Dean wouldn’t have already known Cas was going to ruin his own surprise. 

After all, Dean’s proven himself a pretty decent tactician in recent months. 

“Mrs. C, you are a goddamn treasure,” He leans down and plants a sloppy kiss on her cheek. He glances into Ben’s room where his kid is still packing up his stuff, pulling open drawers and generally making a mess that he’s happy for someone else to clean up, “Hey, can you wait with Ben - make sure he picks up after himself, and then herd him to the car for me? I’m just gonna let Cas know I’m off out.”

“Don’t go antagonizing him now,” Mrs. C warns, flicking her duster at Dean’s departing back, “Last I saw he was deep into it.”

“Would I do a thing like that?” He winks as he jogs down the curved staircase, grinning at his housekeeper before he disappears out of sight. 

  
  
  


***

Dean knocks twice on Cas’ office door, pokes his head round the frame without waiting for an answer, half-expecting and/or bracing to catch his fiancé and head gangster(?) in flagrante delicto. 

Sadly, nothing exciting or even remotely interesting is happening. Castiel is on one side of the desk, frowning, and Gabriel is on the other - presumably frowning too, though Dean can’t actually see his expression.

“Cas, I’m going to drop Ben off at Lisa’s. You need anything whilst I’m out?”

Cas doesn’t look up from whatever plans are spread out on his desk between him and Gabriel, “Where are you going?”

_ Smooth, Cas. _

“I just told you.”

“No, I mean, where else?”

“Why do you need to know? You planning a kegger in my absence?”

A smirk spreads slowly across Gabriel’s face as his head whips back and forth between the two of them, watching them volley back and forth. 

Cas sighs, like the hard done by sucker he isn’t and crushes the papers to the desk, casts a patient-but-not-for-fucking-long glare at Dean, “Because how would I know if I need anything if you don’t tell me where you’re going?”

_ Nice try, Cas. _

It’s a good effort and those are usually rewarded, but Dean’s in a  _ mood  _ and Cas has been not-so-discretely trying to find out what Dean has in store for him, which -  _ not cool _ \- so, he’s gonna make his asshole fiancé regret it, “Surely you know whether you need something or not--”  _ like a slap _ , “--so just tell me and I’ll make sure to stop off at the appropriate place on my way home. It's a simple convention Cas, surely in allllll your years on the planet, you’d understand this by now.”

He gets the eyebrow for that and Dean returns the displeased gesture with his sunniest smile. 

Gabriel is positively gleeful, “You two are a hoot. I’m gonna start a betting pool on which one of you kills the other first.”

“If you wanna get some mileage out of it, you’ll wanna break it down on a week-by-week basis,” Dean tells him, thoroughly enjoying Cas’ exasperated huff when he adds, “Get the whole office involved. Hell, I’ll even throw in.”

“Dean--” Cas starts with an irritated roll of his shoulders and any second now the glance-to-god-for-assistance is gonna come out and Dean is looking forward to it, waiting for it. 

He flutters his eyelashes, “Yes, love of my life, apple of my eye, wind beneath my wings?”

Cas almost cracks, smile threatening to break through the whole growly, menacing, _ ‘grrr you’re such a pain in my ass Dean Winchester’  _ thing that he has going on, but he doesn’t let it break the surface, gets a hold of himself in time, “Can you at least tell me what time you’ll be back?”

“I can,” Dean confirms, pushing the office door wide and stepping in so that they can have this conversation properly, rather than as a one-sided reenactment of that  _ Friends  _ episode, y’know the one with the floating heads, “Not going to though.”

Gabriel chokes out a laugh. 

Because Dean’s not a complete dick, he tacks on, “What I  _ will  _ tell you though, is that I’ll be back when I get back.”

“Helpful,” Castiel mutters drily, but he’s still stomping down hard on that smile, forcing it back and compelling a less than impressed look to the forefront. 

It’s his default state of being though, to be fair.

“I know, right?” Dean agrees cheekily, ready to play his hand, “‘Cause I could’ve always just told Mrs. C and I’m sure you would’ve gotten the message out of her eventually, huh Cas?”

Now. Cas isn’t - has never been - one for a big show of emotions. ‘Nor does he react much to  _ anything _ ; dude manages to remain impressively impassive a lot of the time. Which is a bit of a tactical advantage for him, but also Dean now that he recognizes what to look for. His weird fidgeting when he was about to propose might’ve not seemed much to anyone that doesn’t know him, but to Dean? It was practically a flashing neon sign arrowed at his head,  _ ‘I AM UP TO SOMETHING’  _ and right now? Well, as soon as Dean mentioned their housekeeper, Cas did this little twitch with his nose, which is adorable, but more importantly, a dead giveaway. 

“Dean--”

“Nah,” Dean waves a dismissive hand, interrupting his fiancé, “You wouldn’t do something like that, would you? ‘Cause that would be a  _ real _ asshole move when you promised you wouldn’t try to ruin your own surprise.”

“Ooooh,” Gabriel says, turning his attention to his boss, tutting, “Cas-tiel.”

Believing himself to be the only sane one in a room full of idiots, Cas says, “Look, I just asked Mrs. Curry if there was anything unusual in the house because I was worried--”

“--Sure you were, Cas. Nothing at all to do with the fact that you have serious control issues?”

At Cas’ dark, danger-tinged pause, Gabriel says, “You are a bit of an authoritarian, boss.”

_ Ooooh. RIP Gabriel, it was nice knowing you. _

“Anyway,” Dean chimes in, content to have stirred the pot, “I’m off out. Catch you later Cas, Gabe.”

He makes a swift exit stage left, closing the door behind himself and starts to walk away, but before he can get more than a few steps, the office door is getting yanked open again and Cas is shouting after him, “Dean, where are you going?”

Dean’s answer is a middle finger. 

“ _ Dean! _ ”

The last time he used that super deep, gravel tone on Dean was during Benny’s shooting at the old house. 

It feels like a lifetime ago. 

Practically is, because back then Dean stopped, yelled at Cas out of frustration and fear. But now? Now he whirls on Cas, blows him a kiss, and then cheerfully tells him to go fuck himself. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short warning for this chapter: Lots of violence, a couple of deaths, and an attempted sexual assault.
> 
> Also, the next chapter may possibly be a week behind because I have a conference presentation to prepare for this coming week. I'll try to get chapter 7 out on time, but just be aware that I may not be able to - apologies in advance and just in case.

The sequence of fuckheads getting their comeuppance is ordered very specifically. First on his and Cas’ (s)hitlist is the DA. After the crap she pulled with Henriksen? Yeah, she’s gotta go. The problem is that murdering a DA has to be pulled off delicately, lest he and Cas end up in a cell with Henriksen grinning at them from the other side of the bars.

Raphael is gonna be the next to go. His time has been a little longer coming, but since he’s been feeding info to Nick, they couldn’t just kill him off, ‘cause of course Nick would figure something was up.

Instead, Cas has asked Michael to casually drop little nuggets about his and Dean’s relationship to Raphael. Things like, ‘ _have you heard that the boss and his concubine are sleeping in separate rooms now?’_ and _‘they barely even look at each other anymore’_ and _‘I think there’s something going on with that Dean - he’s acting weird’_.

Dean likes the concubine one the most.

The message must be getting through to Nick because Dean’s yet to be kidnapped and murdered for being a double agent.

Which he’s thankful for, ‘cause that would _really_ ruin his wedding day. 

After Raphael, the next one to go is Henriksen. 

Then Nick.

Then Benny, just for funsies, ‘cause really? What else was he expecting?

Problem is that in order to get this just right, they have to get rid of the first four of them in sequence within a very tight frame. A matter of hours in fact. 

They’ve got so many balls in the air that it’s like hazing week at a frat house. Or as Cas so eloquently put it, like a naked trampolining competition. 

_Images. Urgh._

Still, Dean’s always up for some shenanigans, so he’s gonna give it his best shot. Cas is busy off doing Cas things (probably whatever nefarious shit he's up to with Gabriel) leaving Dean early this morning with a cream pie ( _not_ the baked kind) and an _'I trust you to handle this'._

Dean’s not about to let that trust go unfounded or unrewarded. 

  
  


***

Today’s word of the day is skulduggery. Which seems strangely appropriate.

  
  


***

**The DA.**

Balthazar’s suggestion of cutting the brake lines on the DA’s car to make it look like an accident is a stupid one and Dean tells him so. “It’s not like the movies; you don’t know if that shit’s gonna fail straight away or the hundredth go around. And this is rather time-sensitive.”

Balthazar sighs dramatically, “Yes, yes, Cassie did drill into me the importance of timing.” He looks slyly across the car at Dean, “And speaking of drilling--”

It takes a Dean a second to catch on, but when he does? _Ew._ “No.”

“Oh come on, you’ve got to tell me. Did your devious plan to enrapture Cassie work? Did he sweep you off your feet and then do you up against the wall? Inquiring minds want to know.”

“Inquiring minds need to focus on the job in hand.”

Balthazar makes an annoyed little huffing sound and stares out the windshield, “Poison?”

“Sure,” Dean agrees easily, “Know any apothecaries that sell a drop of cyanide? I mean, come on. I know you’re from the land of Agatha Christie, but let’s bring it up to the twenty-first century, yeah?”

“You’re a demanding little shit, aren’t you? I’ve made a couple of decent suggestions. It’s not my fault they’re not up to your exacting standards.” He pauses, thinking, as Dean turns into the lot behind the DA’s office. 

Usually, they’re a bit more organized than this, but the DA and Raphael’s deaths have had to take a backseat to Nick and Henriksen’s for obvious reasons. 

There are only so many hours in a day that one can dedicate to machiavellian bullshit.

“What about pushing her down the stairs?” Balthazar says as Dean cuts the engine to the crappy little car because his Baby is just too memorable to take the risk.

“This isn’t _‘Death Becomes Her’_.” 

Balthazar smirks as they both get out of the vehicle, “If it was, I’d be Helen.”

“No fuckin’ way, man,” Dean argues over the roof, “You’re a Madeline.”

They’re still no closer to deciding on how to kill the DA, so Dean goes around to the trunk, hoping to find inspiration by gazing down at a selection of random tools he’d bundled into the car. There’s nothing discrete about any of them and that’s the second bullet (heh) point of this murder. Timing, then discretion.

Neither of which are Dean’s strongest points.

_These things are sent to try us._

Balthazar hums to himself, as they stare blankly at the items in the trunk, “Can we not just put a bomb under her car and see the broad out that way?”

  
  


***

They decide on a good old-fashioned ‘suicide’ by hanging. Cliched as hell and Dean’s not entirely happy about it. Her note looks like it was written by a five-year-old and the ink has gone all spidery where she was crying as Dean held a gun to her head.

The whole ordeal takes about half an hour and by the time they’re done, there’s a name marked off his list and one less double-crosser in the mix. 

  
  


***

**Raphael.**

This one’s easy. No staging necessary. Behind the warehouse, Dean shoots him in the chest, watches dispassionately as he bleeds out in the pit dug just for him. He’ll burn the body later.

Nick is due to arrive in the next half an hour, so all Dean has to do now is wait. 

  
  


***

  
  


**Henriksen and Nick.**

  
  


Dean’s sitting on a big-ass pile of counterfeit money, feet a-swinging, when Nick finally turns up at the warehouse, entering cautiously with a couple of missing-link goons behind him, checking around every corner and crevice like the world’s smallest (and shittiest) SWAT team.

They’re armed to the teeth as Dean knew they would be, which is sensible, but misguided. 

“Dean,” Nick says, relief bleeding into his tone, like he was expecting this to be a trap. He lowers his gun as he glances around at all the money presses and equipment.

Dean jumps off the pile, boots hitting the floor with a dull thud, “Overwhelming, right? The first time I came here, I didn’t know where to look _._ ”

Nick gestures to his lackeys to put their weapons away and Dean appreciates the initial show of trust, even though it’s immediately followed up by them beginning to search the warehouse. “Where are the workers?” 

“Shift change over,” Dean answers, “Figured I’d give ‘em an extra hour off, so you can get acquainted with the place in time for their return.”

They’re not returning. Not to _this_ warehouse anyways.

One of the goons starts opening and closing the microwaves, checking for... _something_? A gun, possibly? Though the microwaves might be able to house a little peashooter, no chance of a Glock or anything of actual use. On top of that, there has to be at least sixty microwaves now along that back wall, _so good fucking luck to him_. The other one is half-assedly scanning high and low like a teenager looking through his disorganized bedroom, and these two gorillas couldn’t find a gun if they were at the end of one. 

Dean’s hoping to test that theory sooner rather than later.  
  
Still standing a good few feet away from Dean like he’s… not quite scared - _wary_ is probably the best word for it, Nick asks, “Do you have the paperwork we signed?” 

“Yup.” Dean reaches into his back pocket, unfolds it. Nick hesitates and Dean slants him a coy grin, “Notarized just like I promised. You gonna come get it or what?”

It’s a dare and for a second it looks like Nick’s gonna pick truth. Which could be fun too, just not _as_ fun.

Reaching a decision, he strides confidently over to Dean, gun in hand, and Dean would be lying if he said that he wasn’t a bit on edge about all this, but he swallows it down, smiles his flirtiest smile and hopes that he makes it out of this in one piece.

Even if nobody else currently in the warehouse will.

Nick snatches it out of Dean’s hand, barely sparing him a glance. His eyes scan across the page, making sure it’s the same document as the one he signed at the beginning of the week. 

It is. And this warehouse has been making him money for the past six days rather than for Cas and Dean. Giving this one up and starting anew across town is a small price to pay for getting rid of a pain in their ass though. Even if they haven’t been able to actually start over there yet - couldn’t risk Raphael finding out and reporting back; it would’ve ruined everything.

“So, this place is really mine?”

“Yup,” Dean says again, rocking back on his heels. “All yours, big guy.”

Nick does look up then, and the smile that spreads across his face is probably supposed to chill Dean to the bone, but just makes him feel a bit nauseous instead, “Well then I don’t have much use for you, now do I?”

“Oh no,” Dean holds his hands up when Nick’s goons draw their guns; one of them to his left, still over by the microwaves, the other from somewhere behind him, “What a completely unforeseen turn of events.” 

Nick’s brow creases as he backs away, folding the paperwork and tucking it into his inner jacket pocket, “What?”

“There were only two options here,” Dean explains, pretending to be bored, but he’s keeping an eye and ear on the great apes wielding firearms, “Either you were genuine and wanted me to be your sex slave and torture puppy, or you were playing me and just wanted to get your hands on Cas’ literal moneymaker. Either way, I was gonna come out of it fucked.”

Nick’s gaze drops down and then drags up Dean’s body. _Yeuch_ . “I _really_ wanted you, trust me, I did. I _do_.” His eyes snag on Dean’s mouth and Dean has to fight off a visible shudder. “But like you pointed out at new years’, trusting you would be… difficult. And you’re a pretty fucking dangerous weapon just to have lying around, waiting for the day when you inevitably betray me.”

It’s probably the smartest thing he’s said since he approached Dean at the bake sale. 

_Guess you’re not the only good actor around these parts._

“Harsh, man.”

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Nick almost pleads, like he’s desperate for Dean to have been who he was pretending to be all this time, like maybe they could salvage this and run off into the sunset together. 

_Not all that smart then. Nevermind._

Still, Dean’s got some time - and then some stupid fuckwits - to kill, so he widens his eyes all Bambi-like, sticks out his bottom lip, “B--b-but _Cas’ll kill you_.” 

For a split second, the daft jackass believes him, expression shifting into something softer before he realizes and then his eyes shutter. 

It’s a real face journey and Dean’s pleased to have been able to accompany him on it. 

The goon behind him moves, tiny stones of gravel crunching beneath his ridiculous dress shoes. 

_Just a couple more steps King Kong._

“Nah alright, you got me,” Dean grins, dropping the act but keeping his hands up, “Benny was wrong. Guy has always put me on a pedestal for some reason.”

The goon is coming closer and all Dean needs is another foot or so and then the gorilla will be within striking range. “Didn’t my darling ex tell you why we broke up?”

“Not explicitly, but he intimated it had something to do with Castiel.”

_Ahhhhh, stupid, tragic Benny._

“Uh-huh.” Dean says, “Figures. Well, he cheated on me with practically everybody within a five-mile radius. His sous chef, the busboys. I don’t think there was anyone at his restaurant who hadn’t had a taste of his dick as well as the gumbo, so y’know,” He shrugs nonchalantly, “Maybe his opinion about me ain’t exactly the most reliable source. Considering he seems to have twisted it in his mind that I left him for Cas, which no. Me and Cas was just a happy accident. One actually brought about by him stealing Cas’ money. I won’t tell you the whole _adorable_ story, but the cliff notes version is that I didn’t meet Cas until months after Benny had fucked up and I was trying to rectify it. It was never about money or power; I fell in _love_.”

Though the money and power are certainly bonuses Dean’s learning to enjoy the fuck out of.

Nick glances away, jaw clenched. 

_Yeah, fucko._

Dean carries on, “Also, your other informant, Raphael? Man,” he clicks his tongue, “Dude hated me on sight. Thought that Cas was going soft because of me. I could make a pretty good innuendo there, but I’ll spare us all the mental imagery and leave it at him being wrong too. He’s dead now by the way.”

Nick’s very obviously less than impressed with the information Dean has just laid on him. Which is fair. Maybe, just maybe, instead of trusting biased morons, he should’ve done a bit of his own recon. If he and Cas eyefuck as much as Sammy seems to think they do, then they would’ve been rumbled straight away and Nick could’ve been winning right about now. Still, Dean’s thankful for his incompetence.

“So what now? Is Castiel going to come in here all guns blazing? Kill me?”

“That would be crazy,” Dean scoffs, “Kill you and have the entirety of the mafia on our backs? I mean, not that we couldn’t handle them, but we’d rather not, y’know?”

“We have a stalemate then,” Nick concludes, and the goon is finally close enough to Dean that he’s able to throw an elbow into his face, taking him by surprise, and disarming him. It’s certainly not as smooth as Cas would be in the same situation, but it gets the job done, and now Dean has a weapon that he didn’t walk in here with. The neutralized gorilla drops to the concrete floor when Dean finishes him off with a knee to the crotch. 

Not quite time for firearms just yet. He ejects the magazine, tosses it across the warehouse, keeps the one bullet in the chamber. 

“See,” Dean says, pacing, with the other goon’s aim on him, “The interesting thing that I learned about chess from my soon-to-be husband is that a stalemate means there are no _legal_ moves left, right?” At Nick’s mystified nod, Dean continues, “But we’re not exactly playing on the legal side of things, now are we? So, how do you make an illegal move legal? Why, you bring in the FBI of course!”

“What?” Nick stiffens, muscles in his back knotting, arrogance melting away. 

“Oh yeah,” Dean glances at the big electronic clock mounted onto the column, right above Nick’s head, “There’s about to be an FBI raid on this warehouse. _Your_ warehouse. Y’know--” Dean jerks his chin towards the paper tucked safely in Nick’s jacket, “--the one that is legally in your name. Which means that any illegal activity…” He trails off, tilting his head at the couple of million dollars in counterfeit notes behind him, leaving Nick to fill in the blanks.

All the color drains from Nick’s face and Dean would be laughing and dancing for joy, but this is far from over and he needs to keep his shit together until Nick’s either dead or at the _very_ least in chains. So he and Cas can have him murdered in jail whilst his bond is getting paid.

The former is more preferable, but they’ll settle for the latter, depending on how all this goes down.

“You set me up.” Nick says, disbelieving, “I knew you were going to do something, but I didn’t think you were this devious.”

Dean lifts his shoulder in a one-armed shrug, “It’s what you get for trusting Benny, man. Dude was married to me for years, but had no idea who I am really.” Dean sighs, “I guess it all worked out in the end though, yeah? You get Cas’ super illegal counterfeit operation - that’s no longer under police protection by the way, so mostly worthless - and also some jail time. You’re a good looking guy, I’m sure that’ll work out _super_ well for you. If you don’t get murdered first, of course.”

“Fuck,” Nick spits, panic starting to creep in around the edges along with the realization that he’s been outmaneuvered by some pretty boy he’d hoped to have ass up or failing that, dead. He keeps shooting Dean little glances out of the corner of his eye as he heatedly confers with his still-standing ape, whilst Dean keeps an eye on the one at his own feet, kicking him in the stomach when he starts having ideas about getting back up.

It’s another two minutes and thirty-eight seconds to go until the agreed time, when the outside warehouse door screeches open and _fuck._ Dean’s not ready and neither is Nick. 

_Shit. What the hell is Henriksen playing at?_

He’s gotta get rid of the weapon before the agents catch him with it, and just as he’s about to shoot the final bullet into the goon hunched up into the fetal position on the floor, another gunshot goes off. 

He whips his head around and time seems to slow down, all Matrix-like. It’s Michael; he’s come in ahead of Henriksen, through the outside door, around the concrete pillar, and inside door, and for a split second Dean’s relieved to see him, but then Michael is crumpling to the floor, a bullet embedded in his forehead, fired from Nick’s gun. Dean’s pretty sure he yells, but there’s absolutely nothing he can do. 

Long seconds tick past where Dean can’t hear anything except for a ringing in his ears, but the next thing he knows, the goon on the floor is dead by Dean's hand, and he’s wiping the empty gun down, getting rid of his fingerprints before the FBI burst in, dropping it next to the body. 

Henriksen’s the next one to come around the corner, but this time Nick’s ready, and he unloads a clip into Henriksen’s bulletproof vest, before catching him in the neck. 

It’s exactly what Dean and Cas were hoping for, but it’s still jarring to see firsthand and Henriksen drops to his knees, blood pouring from his pulpy neck.

Nick and his lackey aren’t focused on Dean at all; both of them only have eyes for the door where more FBI agents are surely about to storm through at any second. 

_Good._

Dean rushes up on the goon, trusty folding knife in hand - the only weapon he has - and with his offhand, he covers the mouth of the lackey as he stabs the fucker in the kidney, blood slicking his palm. The goon fires his gun until it empties as Dean twists the knife with a sickening squelch, severing veins. Dean yanks the blade out, plunges it into the side of the guy’s neck, right behind the carotid artery, saws through flesh with the serrated blade to sever the trachea beneath the vocal folds. He can’t scream as he dies - which would alert Nick - and Dean might be covered in someone else’s blood for the first time today, but it’s his fourth murder - and he really isn’t feeling anything other than a vague sense of accomplishment.

More FBI agents pour in. Thankfully, Nick either hasn’t noticed or is utterly indifferent to his lackey breathing his last mere feet away (Dean’s betting it’s a charming combination of both); and he just carries on firing, switching out his empty firearm for the one he swipes from Henriksen during a short reprieve. It’s like a fucking video game and the bodies keep piling up. 

In fairness to the guy, he’s an excellent shot; measured and precise. Dean’s at least as good though, so he silently darts over to Michael’s body, inhales through his mouth, exhales through his nose, tries not to get sentimental. He and Michael weren’t best buds or anything, but there was a grudging sort of respect between them and Dean never wanted this to happen. 

The shooting stops abruptly, nobody else coming through the door, and with Michael’s gun in hand, Dean swivels on his haunches to face Nick.

_Fuck._

Nick’s no longer focussed on anyone but Dean. Sig pointed at Dean’s chest, he orders, “Drop your weapons. Both of them.”

Dean’s laugh is a little hysterical as he rises to his feet, “Not a chance, man.”

Nick shoots just to the left of Dean’s head, bullet whizzing past inches away from his ear and embedding in the wall behind him, “The next one goes in your brain.”

Michael’s gun isn’t ready to fire. In the second it would take to pull the slide back and flick off the safety, Nick would shoot him in the fucking face. He can’t reach any of the other guns that agents have ( _had?_ ) from here either.

_Shit shit shit._

Dean doesn’t know what to do. This wasn’t part of the plan. One (or preferably several) of the FBI agents was supposed to return fucking fire and kill Nick - or at the very least maim him so Dean could finish the job with one of their guns. But that didn’t happen and now everyone’s dead. Michael, Nick’s apes, at least six or seven agents, probably closer to ten. 

Looks like Dean wasn’t the only one underestimated here.

It’s just the two of them still standing and they stare each other down, both breathing hard, chests rising and falling out of rhythm, and Dean wants nothing more than Cas to appear behind Nick and snap his fucking neck. 

Sadly, it doesn’t happen. 

“Drop your weapons. I won’t ask again.”

No, he probably won’t.

_God-fucking-dammit._

Hands in the air, Dean drops the gun, sending it clattering to the concrete.

“Kick it to me.”

Dean does. Reluctantly.

“The knife too. Toss it over here.”

_Sure thing, I’ll toss it right into your fucking head you asshole._

Dean smirks sardonically and Nick returns it with a sharp grin of his own, “I know what you’re thinking. But are you willing to take that risk? What if you miss? What if the knife doesn’t embed in my brain like you’re no doubt envisaging right now?”

Eh. It wouldn’t need to kill, just distract him for long enough. But would it? Realistically, no. Dean’s still tempted though, because what has he got to lose? Nick’s gonna kill him, probably do some nasty stuff to him first. At least if Dean goads him into killing him now, he won’t be alive for the nasty shit.

Jesus, fuck. How has this gone so wrong in such a short space of time? 

Obviously, they’d wanted Henriksen dead, but the others? Yeahhh, not so much. 

_And this is why you should never rely on others to do your dirty work._

Cas’ seventh gangster rule. 

Nick the absolute asswipe is going to get away with it. He’s going to pin Henriksen’s murder on poor dead Michael and the law won’t touch it. Dead agent killed by a dead gangster during some kind of showdown. Turf wars and inter-gang violence are usually solved outside the parameters of traditional methods and Nick knows this, is relying on it. 

He’ll get away.

_No._

Dean can’t let that transpire. No matter what happens to him - whether he lives or dies (and he would very much prefer the former over the latter) - Nick cannot be allowed to walk out of here.

_So, options. C’mon, think._

It’s just him and Nick, and Dean’s now weaponless besides his knife. He didn’t bring anything else because he was expecting to be taken into custody by one of the other agents, as per their agreement with Henriksen and his boss.

_Fuck._

Cas is supposed to meet Dean down at the police station. He’s not coming here, so it’s up to Dean to salvage this. 

But how?

_Play him. It’s all you’ve got._

Dean drops his knife.

Nick gestures with his gun, “Kick it over here.”

Hands still in the air, Dean does as he’s told, trying not to wince at all the scratches it’ll have now. He likes that knife, he’ll have to get it resurfaced.

_If you ever see it again._

Regarding him closely, reluctant admiration in his expression, Nick tells him, “It’s not too late, you know. I get that you’ve kind of screwed the pooch here, but--” he casts a glance toward his poor deceased henchmen, “--You have once again proven yourself to be rather magnificent. It seems a shame to let that go to waste. What do you say? You killed two of mine, I killed one of yours. If I kill your fiancé, then we’ll be even, won’t we?”

Dean can’t hide his instinctual, bodily reaction to that. He keeps his peace though, calmly tracking Nick as he advances, waiting for him to get close enough. 

Nick’s smirk is a calculated one when he stops just out of range of Dean’s arm span, apparently remembering how Dean took his goon down, “You must think I’m stupid.”

Dean pulls a helpless face, lifts his shoulders in a half shrug, “Well, yeah. _Obviously_.”

Okay, so he can’t keep his peace.

“Lace your fingers together behind your head.”

_He’s afraid of you._

Dean does as he’s told, plays along.

“ _You_ ...are very crafty,” Nick says, using his gun to scratch at the itch of blood on his forehead, “I must admit, I like the way you think. We would make such a great team. It really is very unfortunate that you’re not who your ex thought you were, because I could offer you everything that Castiel can’t. We would be unstoppable.” He pauses, regarding Dean closely, “Are you _sure_ you can’t be tempted? Won’t consider working for me?”

_Not even with a damn gun to my head, you delusional fuck._

“Or - and here’s my counter proposition - _Fuck you_ ,” Dean spits with as much venom as he can muster, copper in his mouth and bile on his tongue.

Nick laughs and it’s a cruel, harsh sound, “Do you think there’s time? Before your Castiel shows up? If he’s coming at all.”

And isn’t that the big issue? Dean kind of wants Cas to come in here, save him like some knight in tarnished armor, but at the same time, he doesn’t, because Nick has killed everyone who has come through that door. But Cas is smart. Smarter than every one of those stupid fuckers that just kept coming like lemmings.

And sure, they might have agreed to meet at the station, but Dean _knows_ Cas. Knows that his fiancé is never one for doing as he’s told; has made it his life’s mission to do the exact opposite of what everyone expects.

It’s one of the many things about Cas that Dean loves and finds murder-worthy in equal measure. 

What it hopefully means is that Cas is on his way. Dean needs to stall Nick until he gets here and if Cas doesn’t come, well then Dean might be able to get Nick distracted enough for him to kill the dick himself.

Either way though, Dean’s unarmed. But, that doesn’t mean he’s weaponless. He does have one thing that he can use to get one over on Nick; something that the asshole has wanted for months. 

“Try it and see what happens,” Dean challenges, a little shaky, but defiant. He licks his dry lips, attempting to make it subtle enough that Nick will think it’s his idea. 

Nick’s eyes spark - _bingo_ \- and he closes the gap between them, drags the muzzle of his gun up Dean’s throat, traces a path over Dean’s parted mouth, “Get on your knees.”

_Cas, you’d better be hauling ass right fucking now._

He stares Nick down a little longer, hostile green eyes meeting triumphant blue ones. Metal bangs into his teeth. “Get on your fucking knees. _Now._ ”

Not wanting to speak with a whistle for the rest of his days, Dean drops to his knees, the concrete floor jarring and cold.

_Man, I am getting too old for this shit._

Nick presses the gun to Dean’s temple, “If you bite me, I’ll shoot you.”

Dean smiles his widest smile, showcasing his straight, white teeth, “Then I’ll just clamp down and give you a Bobbitt-style castration.”

Nick lowers his zipper with one hand, and Dean tries his hardest not to lose his lunch. Nick smells like stale sweat and warm skin through navy cotton - nothing offensive or disgusting; just like every other dude in the world - but it’s the fact that it’s not _Cas_ , that has Dean unconvinced he can do this.

 _You don’t actually have to suck his cock, just make him_ **_think_ ** _you’re about to._

Dean looks up through his lashes at Nick who’s gazing down at him, enraptured. 

_Make him fucking hurt._

Dean’s voice is a bit hoarse when he asks, “Do you want me to get you out, or are you expecting me to suck you through your boxers? ‘Cause I’ve done it both ways and one is much better than the other.”

Nick must be feeling a little more secure - less scared - with Dean in this position, because he gestures with the gun, says, “Yeah, take my cock out.”

Dean reaches out with his right hand, leaving the left on the back of his head, checks to make sure it’s okay with Nick - it is - acting as if to go for the waistband of his boxers, but at the last moment, he makes a fist and punches Nick as hard in the balls as he can at such close range. 

It’s enough to allow Dean to throw himself backward, and get his hands underneath him, scrambling away. 

“You fuck!” Nick bellows, doubling over and cradling his dick. Unfortunately, it’s _not_ enough to have him drop his gun, but that’s okay, because Dean’s not too proud to run. 

Dean clambers to his feet, trembling more than he realized, and staggers away on unsteady legs. The adrenaline is just hitting his system as he gets taken down by a 6ft 3’ mafioso to the back, and he lands painfully on the concrete, chest and chin bearing the worst of it. 

It knocks all the air out of him, winding him, and he’s pretty sure that he’s cracked a rib, but there’s _no fucking way_ he’s giving up. He thrashes underneath Nick, breathing coming in harsh pants and gasps, as Nick’s hands start pawing at him, attempting to yank his jeans down. 

“I’m gonna fuck you and then kill you,” Nick snarls in his ear, pinning one of Dean’s hands to the small of his back with a knee, “How do you think he’ll like that?” Despite the whole struggling-with-breathing thing, Dean has enough presence of mind to jerk his head back and catch the hardest part of his skull against Nick’s delicate cheekbone. It’s a pretty decent headbutt in super shitty circumstances, and it stuns the fucker sufficiently to allow Dean to crawl away, grit under his nails, kicking out at Nick’s hand grasping for his boot. 

He’s still winded and wheezing for breath, so he doesn’t really get far before Nick’s on him once again, gun to the back of his head, shoving Dean’s face into the grit, and Dean squeezes his eyes shut. Thinks of Cas, of Ben, of Sam, of Charlie. Fuck, even Bobby, the crotchety old bastard.

He turns his head, scrape of rough concrete against his jaw and cheek, “Just do it, you asshole. I’d rather die than let you fucking touch me.”

_Cas you'd better avenge me Inigo Montoya style, you asshole._

He waits. Waits for oblivion, and wishes he’d told Cas how much he loves him more, wishes he’d played fucking Gran Turismo with Ben a few days ago instead of dealing with Henriksen, wishes he’d patched things up with Sammy sooner.

_God-fucking-dammit._

There are muffled footsteps coming from somewhere in the warehouse, getting louder and louder, until Dean can hear them clearly over the sound of his own jagged breaths.

“ _Get off him,_ **_now._ **”

_Cas?_

Dean’s heart does a little somersault and he damn near sobs in relief. Nick, however, does not listen to instruction, which seems rather stupid given the circumstances. 

“Son, I’d do as he says.”

And that’s the Police Chief.

Well, at least _Cas_ wasn’t stupid enough to come here without backup. 

Dean can’t quite see either of them due to the 240 pounds of gangster slowly crushing him, but he knows that he must make quite the sight on the warehouse floor; bloodied face, shirt torn, dirty all over, and underneath Nick. Cas is surely painting the picture by numbers in his head and not liking the end result. At all.

Suddenly the weight is removed from Dean’s back, as Nick hurries to scramble off him, and Dean gasps in air like he’s been underwater for weeks. He rolls over and stares up at the skylights in the composite roof, only vaguely listening to Nick begging for his life. 

Bright blue eyes and dark hair appears in Dean’s line of sight, blocking out the sky, and Cas’ handsome but concerned face stares down at him.

Dean grins up at his fiancé, a macabre show of bloody teeth, “Hey, babe.”

Cas’ expression smooths out and then he’s gone again. Dean lolls his head to the side to follow. Nick has his back up against the pile of money, palms in the air, shaking his head, no. Cas isn’t interested, however, and seconds later there’s a final gunshot ringing out. 

The bullet that tears through Nick’s chest is a satisfying end to end a very long fucking day. 

  
  


***

  
  


There's a first aid kit in the staff break room. Cas sits Dean down at one of the canteen-style benches, drops down on his haunches, and starts patching Dean up silently; gently dabbing at his wounds with hydrogen peroxide.

Dean jerks away on a sharp intake of breath when it fizzes painfully in a large gash on his jaw. Cas practically rolls his eyes, all _'don't be a fucking baby',_ and Dean's pretty sure he's earned being a baby today.

In a feeble attempt to lighten the dark mood, Dean asks, "You got any of those _'Hello Kitty'_ bandaids in there? I wanna look cute but tough."

Cas just raises an eyebrow, doesn’t say anything. He hasn’t since he shot Nick, in fact. Dean would be worried, but he’s a little preoccupied with the pain in his chest. 

The police chief is on the main floor of the warehouse, cataloging the damage. He’d wanted to call a paramedic, but Dean had waved it off. It doesn’t hurt to breathe, so it probably isn’t broken. More likely bruised, but it still hurts like a _fucking bitch_. 

_If those painkillers could kick in around now, that would be super helpful._

He’s alive though, which is more than he can say for Michael and the nine agents including Henriksen. 

“Cas,” Dean catches his fiancé’s wrists, halting his movements, “I’m so fucking sorry about Michael. I know you and he worked together for a long time. He must’ve meant a lot to you.”

“Michael’s been with me since the beginning,” Cas says quiet but firm, not meeting Dean’s eyes, “He’s never been anything other than loyal. He did not deserve to die like that.”

It’s little consolation, but it’s all Dean’s got when he says, “At least it’s over now. We’ll give him one hell of a send-off. And as for Nick? Well, he’ll be blamed for Henriksen’s murder just like we planned. They’re both out of the picture. It’s done. We’re safe.” He glances down at himself, his torn shirt and abraded skin, “And relatively unscathed.”

Cas nods, drops his head for a moment, and when he looks up at Dean, his eyes are wet and Dean’s heart splinters, “Did he hurt you?”

They both know what he’s asking.

“Not for a lack of trying, but no.” And because he has to, he adds, jokingly, “My virtue is still intact, so I’ll be able to wear white at our wedding.”

Cas slants him a long-suffering look, “I think that time has long since passed.”

Pleased that Cas is able to joke too, Dean says, “Are you trying to say that I am not virgin pure? Psht. And to think that you paid an entire guinea fowl for me.”

“It was worth every feather,” Cas tells him, dabbing at the graze on Dean’s chin.

“Awhh, I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, Cas.”

“Well, don’t expect it too often.”

They lapse into silence again while Cas tends to his cuts and injuries. Examining the webbing of bruises forming on Dean’s torso, Cas lets out an angry growl, “I wish I could kill him again.”

Dean’s about to respond with a joke about zombie gangsters that would’ve been some of his best work, but it’s then that the police chief pokes his head around the break room door, “Castiel, we’ve got a problem out here.”

Cas pushes to his feet, graceful as ever, and tosses the soiled cotton ball onto the table at Dean’s back, “What?”

“Nick’s gone.”

  
  


***

Sure enough, the place where Nick’s body once was is empty, save for a drying pool of blood.

_Well, fuck-a-doodle-doo._

“For fuck’s sake,” Castiel mutters through clenched teeth. He looks as pissed as Dean’s ever seen him, eyes fathomless and mouth in a razor-thin line. 

“Shoulda double-tapped that motherfucker.” Dean comments, light-headed with the Oxycodone finally working its magic.

“I was distracted,” _by you almost getting your head blown off._

“Yeah, I know.”

_In the immortal words of Avril Lavigne: Why'd you have to go and make things so complicated, Nick? Shoulda just died quickly when you had the chance._

They may or may not be the full lyrics. 

Pleasantly buzzed and not at all worried - and yeah, he can see why people take this shit for fun - Dean tells his fiancé, “Looks like you’ll get your wish, Cas. You’re gonna get to kill him all over again.”

They’ve just gotta find the cunt first.

Before he finds them.

_Oooh. Dun dun dun._

  
  


***

There’s too much bloodshed to make the warehouse a usable space from now on. They’d already written it off in their calculations, but setting fire to it and the bodies inside (excluding Michael’s) feels like the end of an era. More so for Cas than Dean, but Dean still gets it. 

Gabe and Balthazar turn up to help torch the place, and the four of them (the police chief left with a thrown hands ‘not my problem’ gesture before Cas got his pyromania on), watch on as fire engulfs the horizon. 

They pass a bottle of bourbon around, each of them pouring one out for Michael, nobody uttering a word. 

  
  


***

“So that didn’t go quite as planned,” Dean says into the dark spaces of the car, the only words spoken in the fire-scented silence since they left the warehouse. 

Cas doesn’t respond.

Dean’s not high anymore, so he’s got no excuse for his continued babbling, “I mean, it’s not all bad, right? Not a complete loss. Henriksen’s gone, Nick’s on the run from the law. He’s not gonna be bothering us for a while.”

Even as he shakily says it though, Dean’s not entirely convinced. Nick knows everything about them. Where they live, their kids, their families, _everything_. 

_Fuck._

They won’t be able to rely on his most wanted status to keep him away forever. Given a bit of time, the mafia will be able to grease enough palms that the law will call off the dogs, and then he’ll be back.

And like _The_ _Phantom Menace_ , it’ll be _bad_.

_Fuckity fuck._

Cas’ jaw is clenched, whole body tightly strung, fists white-knuckling the steering wheel, and he looks one wrong move away from punching something or some _one_ until it bleeds every last pint of blood. 

“Cas,” Dean tries, voice small. 

“ _Nope_ ,” Cas growls and yanks the wheel to one side, gravel pinging against the underside of the impala as he pulls them over. Dean would wince on behalf of his Baby, but he’s kind of preoccupied with his own health as Cas stares him down, eyes pitch-black, fury rolling off him in waves. 

They sit there, staring at each other in the darkness, until Dean can’t stand it anymore, “Cas, I’m--”

“--Don’t you _dare_ say that you’re sorry. Because I will hit you.”

Shit.

Dean’s not quite sure how to take that. Does Cas mean that Dean shouldn’t be sorry in the first place, or that he doesn’t want to hear it? Such a small distinction, yet a very important one.

This is where the ability to communicate like a pair of functioning adults would be useful. 

“O--kay,” Dean says slowly, and fate-tempting fucker that he is, tacks on, “But I _am_ sorry though--”

Before the words are even out, Cas is reaching over and slapping Dean across the face. It’s a mild hit, all things considered, not even a backhander, or a closed fist, but it still sends Dean’s head snapping to the side. He cradles his cheek, staring at Cas, mouth agape.

“You fucking _hit_ me.”

“I warned you.”

 _Fuck this_. Dean returns the favor, catching Cas across the fading, sickly-green bruises on his jaw with a satisfying crack.

Incensed, Cas strikes him again, this time a little harder. And again, Dean cracks him across the face in return. Back and forth they go until they’re practically brawling on the Impala’s bench, adrenaline and testosterone fuelling their ineffectual wrestling. Hitched breaths and sweating faces, they fight like they fuck - crazed and devastated, and like it’s the only thing that matters in the moment. 

When Cas stops hitting back, he’s underneath Dean, knees between Dean’s thighs and Dean has his hand curled into a fist, pulled back and ready to break Cas' fucking nose. His rib hurts, his face hurts, but most of all his heart hurts. 

Cas’ voice is nothing more than a hitch of breath, “I saw the gun at your head and I thought I was going to lose you. Then when I killed him - it was over. I could stop worrying about you and him trying to hurt you. But he’s not dead and I--”

Fuck.

Cas’ stilted, heartfelt declaration pretty much takes the wind out of Dean’s sails, and instead of following up with the punch, he crushes his bloodied mouth to Cas’, so hard that their teeth clack and it’s not pleasant, but Cas arches up against him, fists his hand in Dean’s clean, not-yet-destroyed shirt, drags him in closer. 

“I’m sorry, I fucked up,” Dean breathes between frantic, messy kisses. He should’ve just shot Nick instead of his lackey. This could’ve all been avoided. Michael might still have been dead, but so would Nick.

Cas quiets Dean with a bite to his bottom lip, one that tears a moan from his throat and has more blood pumping sluggishly from the split, coppery and slick.

“It was a stupid plan,” Cas huffs against Dean’s mouth, soothing the hurt with his tongue, “I should never have let you go through with it.”

Propped up on his arm above Cas, Dean pulls back, “What? The plan was solid.”

“Apparently not.” Cas smarts, Dean’s blood in his mouth, “Because we didn’t account for every eventuality and now we’re going to be looking over our shoulders for god knows how long.”

_Yeah. Jesus._

Dean awkwardly sits back on the passenger side, back wedged against the door. He curls a protective arm around his sternum and watches as Cas mirrors his position (though not the rib-hugging thing, ‘cause there’s no way either of them did any real damage to each other) from the driver’s side, hair a wild, debauched mess, bruised and bleeding, “So what now?”

“Now? We do what we should have in the first place,” Cas swabs at the blood from his nose, wipes it on the navy of his jeans - and huh, dark clothes really do hide blood well - “We speak to the Commission.”

  
  


***

Of all the things Dean didn’t know about gangstering - and truth be told, he’s pretty bummed out that movies lied to him - the Commission is perhaps the biggest fish slap moment. 

He’s in his best suit, standing next to Cas in his. They’re waiting in the lobby of a chintzy Vegas hotel to speak to the board of directors of the freakin’ mafia. 

_Yeah._ The mafia has a board of directors. They’re mediators and overseers of all mafia activity in the US and whilst Dean has the excuse of ignorance of their existence, Cas doesn’t, so why in the absolute _fuck_ did they not come here first?

The only reasoning Dean’s come up with so far is because Cas is petty AF until the end and would rather deal with things his own way. Even if that way by his own admission was insufficient and ended up putting their families in danger.

Admittedly, there’s no way they could’ve known how it was gonna go down before it actually did, but if Cas had just swallowed his pride and asked for help, then all this could’ve potentially been avoided. The commission has the power to stop shit like Nick was trying to pull. Whether they would have or not is up for debate, but Dean and Cas could have at least tried that option.

If Cas wasn’t such a stubborn, petty asshole.

_But he is, so._

Would Dean have done it differently if he’d have known? Probably not, in fairness. He’s a stubborn ass too and he’s always fixed his own problems by himself and in his own way.

It’s ironically what’s gotten him into all this in the first place.

So yeah, Dean can’t - and doesn’t - blame Cas. At all. Even though he really wanted to at first.

Thankfully, so far, Nick hasn’t deigned to crawl out of the woodwork, and Cas has made sure that all family members and friends are sufficiently protected without a break in their routine. It has meant a diversion of resources, but they both agreed it’s an extremely important one. Lisa, Matt, and Ben are under Gabriel and Jack’s watch, Amelia and Claire are under Balthazar’s. Fortunately, Sam, Charlie, Jess, Dorothy, and Madison were happy to house-sit for Cas and Dean on their trip to Vegas (which they’re taking under the guise of needing a pre-wedding break) and are otherwise watched over by various henchmen.

It’s a military operation, honestly, and Dean’s kinda impressed with how quickly they managed to scrape everything together in a cohesive manner, before hopping on the first death-tube (commonly known as a plane) out here.

All this is to say that Dean’s currently tired and cranky, but kind of hopped-up too and he _realllllly_ wants to go to the mob museum.

“Stop fidgeting,” Cas tells him, which no. He’s in fucking _Vegas_ the week of his birthday and Cas still owes him a hotel called Freckles or Sexy Ass or some other ode to his favorite body part a la Bugsy Siegel and Virginia Hill. 

“Are we gonna whack somebody?” Dean asks with a grin, bumping Cas’ shoulder with his own.

“You killed the DA, Raphael, and several of Nick’s men just recently, do they not count?”

“Nah. Whacking somebody is completely different.”

“In certain verbiage, it means masturbation,” Cas muses and Dean detects the sly mirth in his voice. “I’m sure there are plenty of professionals in Vegas who would accommodate your request.”

“Yeah, and you’d cut their fucking hands off.”

“That’s the risk you take,” Cas replies blithely.

“Dick,” Dean tells him, glancing at the rainbow water fountain just across from them. It’s completely unnecessary and out of place and for those reasons alone, Dean immediately loves it, “Hey, what’s the difference between the mob and the mafia? _Is_ there a difference?”

Dean can _hear_ Cas’ eye roll, “The mafia refers to a specific organization, the mob is a catch-all term for any organized criminal enterprise.”

“So us then?”

“No.”

“We’re an ‘organized criminal enterprise’, right?”

“Supposedly.”

A man with a sagging sweater-full of coins waddles past them. There are probably easier ways to carry money to slot machines.

_Like those little paper cups._

Suddenly, Dean wants to go on the slot machines instead of meeting the elders of the mafia or whatever is about to happen here. 

“That makes us the mob then. Do I have to come with you?”

“Are you wanting to put it on your CV?” Cas pauses, watching a harried woman drag her kid through the foyer, “And yes. I’ll never hear the end of it if you don’t.”

Dean grins, “Yeah. And then under it list: drug mule, money launderer, torturer, murderer…”

Cas responds, “Don’t forget extortion,” right as a somber-looking man in an expensive suit approaches them. 

“Mr. Novak, Mr. Winchester. This way please.”

  
  


***

  
  


It quickly becomes apparent when the two of them walk into the huge, unnecessarily opulent and ostentatious boardroom, that this ain’t gonna be no amateur city hall bullshit. Which is probably one of many reasons that Cas didn’t fuck Dean in the bathroom and force him to squirm his way through the meeting.

_Praise Jesus._

“Ah, Castiel!” One of the seven men seated around the long boardroom table rises, arms spread wide. He’s big and jolly and looks nothing like someone who shoots people who owe him ten dollars up against a wall, “It’s been a long time, has it not?” The others are all in variant shades of pleased and put out to see Cas. 

Which seems to be a common reaction amongst his peers. Cas isn’t part of some larger organization - started his own with _blackjack and hookers_ or whatever - and Dean can imagine just how much resentment and annoyance it’s caused in the criminal underworld. 

Cas is the thorn in their sides, which is why he was probably so amused when Dean assumed he was mafia at their second meeting.

“At least ten years,” Cas responds icily and Dean is clearly missing something here. 

“We know why you’re here,” Another says from the right of the standing one. He’s got a weasley little face and no amount of power or influence could make it one that he doesn’t have to pay people to be near, “It’s because of my nephew, Nick.”

_Bingo bango._

“Yes,” Cas confirms, but is otherwise tight-lipped, and it’s not like the dude is a chatty Cathy at the best of times, but this? This is like trying to squeeze modesty from a particularly petty, recalcitrant gangster (which as everyone knows, is ten times more difficult than trying to get blood from a stone). 

“Well, take a seat, take a seat,” The standing one says, leading by example. He’s at the head of the table, right under the gold chandelier, and that’s just poor room design. He smiles at Dean, all shark-like and with far too much joviality, “And this must be the Dean Winchester we’ve all heard so much about.”

“Not from you,” Another one - Purple Tie, Dean’s gonna call him - interjects pointedly, “Through the grapevine. And apparently you’re getting married?”

This is like being a teenager all over again, bringing your date back two minutes past her curfew and her father has a fucking shotgun. Except this time, it’s seven dads with shotguns, knuckle dusters, rocket launchers, and the means to make you disappear without a trace. 

“I wasn’t aware I needed your permission,” Castiel tells them mildly, still not taking a high-backed seat, so Dean doesn’t either, “Should Dean have asked for your blessing?”

_What._

If Dean had known that they were here on a fucking suicide mission, he would’ve at least written a will before they hauled ass out to Vegas.

He could be out there living his last few hours in ignorant bliss on the coin pusher machines he saw near the kids' area. 

They could’ve gotten married by Elvis, _fuck_ , that would’ve been _awesome_. 

Instead, he’s standing here on some gaudy carpet watching his _insane_ fiancé roast some top-tier mafia bosses without any sense of self-preservation.

It would be a beautiful thing if Dean wasn’t freaking out too much to enjoy it.

He’s already been a hair’s breadth away from having his brains blown out this month, he’s not keen to repeat the experience before he turns thirty-three. 

_Or ever again._

Gold Chandelier laughs, a deep rich sound, “It’s good to see that although the years have gone, your sense of humor hasn’t, Castiel. You’ve always been sharp as a tack.”

_‘Always’? Just how far back does Cas’ relationship go with these dudes?_

“I’m not here to talk about Dean or our impending nuptials, I’m here to talk about Nick.”

Weasel-face pipes up again, “He tells me that you tried to kill him.”

“Yes. As direct retaliation for him declaring war.”

A low murmur goes up around the table. A couple of the ones that haven’t spoken yet lean into each other's space to talk in hushed voices and Dean’s no lip reader, but one of them definitely says something about horses' heads.

“He declared war and we’re only just hearing about this now?” Another one - Rich Uncle Moneybags - asks with no small amount of scorn, like it’s Cas’ responsibility to tattle. ‘ _Why didn’t you tell us that he was bullying you before he pantsed you?’_

Dean’s beginning to understand Cas’ reluctance to come to them in the first place.

“You didn’t think fit to tell me when you approved him as the new boss,” Castiel points out, not all that respectfully judging by the pinched look on all their faces. 

“Yes,” Purple tie counters, “But the Kansas outfit is so small, we thought his appointment inconsequential.”

“Well, I’m sure you’re more than aware of how monumentally fucking wrong you all were.”

Dean makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat. His butthole actually clenches. 

_Why the hell would you be this deliberately insolent to the highest-ranking members of the mafia if you don’t have a death wish?_

It’s just unfortunate for Dean and his desire to live that he’s manacled himself to this self-destructive idiot. 

“Castiel,” Rich Uncle Moneybags says, “Do not think just because we allowed you your own operation in our country due to your heritage, that we can’t shut you down if we so choose.”

A muscle tics in Castiel’s jaw. 

_Well, fuck._

This has gone spectacularly well, so far. 

Dean’s dreams of reaching thirty-three are fading with every second that ticks past on the out-of-place grandfather clock in the corner, and any minute now, some heavy is gonna knock him out and he’ll wake up in the trunk of a car with Ray Liotta and Joe Pesci peering down at him. 

“Gentlemen,” Castiel starts, and uh-oh, that’s his _‘I’mma bout to lay some truths on you mofos, so buckle up’_ voice, “I have not come to you in over a decade. I have always kept my operation within the parameters we discussed when you--” _ooh, here come the finger quotes,_ “-- _’allowed’_ me to start my enterprise. And I have always, _always_ made you money. Which is the only reason you’ve left me to my own devices, so let’s not pretend that it’s out of some noble sense of who my father was and what you did to him.”

_God, if you exist and can hear me, it’s Dean Winchester. I spent the first thirty-one years of my life being a good little boy. Ignore the last eighteen months. Just a blip, honest. So, errr, can you please zap us outta this situation? I promise I’ll be super good and renounce all naughty shi-- stuff or whatever it is your followers do. Chastity I can’t quite do, but I’ll adopt a goat and wear robes, grow a beard, whatever you need. Lay down in green pastures. Please just get us the fuc-- the heck outta here._

Dean squeezes his eyes shut, waits for the weird, swoopy-stomach sensation he’s always assumed would come with teleportation. 

Nothing, nada. 

Nobody’s speaking in the boardroom either, so for a long moment before Dean opens his eyes again, he’s of the belief that God might’ve actually stepped in and smote - smited? smitten? - everyone else in the room. 

_No such luck._

Goddamn. _Literally._

Alright, so. This is gonna be up to them. 

Obviously they don’t have any weapons - Dean might be able to make use of the ballpoint in his pocket on one of these geriatric stereotypes, but that won’t get them far. The doors are guarded and the whole place has cameras covering every inch. There’s no way they’ll be Oceans Elevening their way outta this one. 

For Christ’s sake, Dean didn’t even get his fucking hotel. That’s like, literally the least Cas could have done for him at this point. 

Finally, one who hasn’t spoken before - an Al Capone look alike - says in a smooth voice, “Why did you really come here today, Castiel? You’ve always handled your own business and apparently this time was no different. We know that Nick has killed several FBI agents and for that, we’ll be cleaning up after him for quite some time, but that’s our problem, not yours. Nick hasn’t been back to Kansas and we’ve removed him as leader of that branch. He’s of no threat to you anymore, which is surely what you wanted in the first place, no? So why are you standing here in front of us, giving us lip?”

A good question. And a rather merciful summation of what’s happened in this room so far. 

Them being safe though, that’s news to Dean. They hauled ass out here under the impression that Nick was breathing down their necks. To find out that he’s not? It does have Dean relaxing a little.

Still, he won’t feel entirely safe until Nick is in the fucking ground.

“He tried to take what’s mine,” Castiel answers after a heartbeat, and the men around the room exchange knowing glances about Cas’ inability to share his toys, but there’s something else there that nobody is saying aloud, and Dean would love to know what the fuck he’s not getting. Fortuitously, Cas makes it pretty clear with his next statement, “He threatened Dean from the start, put his hands on him, put a gun to his head and tried to--” Cas stops himself with a sharp inhale, hands clenched into fists at his side. “--And _that_ I will not tolerate.”

Oh. _Oh._

Jesus Christ, Cas.

“I’m not asking you to do anything other than hand him over to me. I know you’re hiding him - or at the very least know where he is - and this needs to be made right.” 

The seven of them launch into intense talks across the table, during which Dean takes the opportunity to have a quiet word with his fiancé.

That word being _‘fuck’_ , and preceded by _‘what the’_.

“It’s fine, Dean,” Cas reassures him, though it’s not reassuring _at all._ “This is their problem to put right.” 

Uh-huh.

“They owe me,” Cas elaborates, upon seeing Dean’s unconvinced expression, “And you should know better than anybody that I always collect.”

_He’s not wrong there._

“That mean I’m still paying off the hundred grand that you inflated into two million dollars?”

A wry smirk twists Cas’ lips, “From you - and you only - I accept other forms of payment.”

Dean wants to say something like, _‘Man, if you’d told me that from the get-go, I woulda been on my knees that first night’,_ but because they’re in a room full of scary assholes, he goes with, “So this is all about what Nick did - well, _didn’t do_ \- to me?” Cas’ expression is carefully blank, but something passes behind his eyes that gives him away, “I love the romantic chivalry and all, Cas, but it’s fine. Don’t make this a revenge mission, it just needs to be an execution for the safety of everyone we care about, and the continuation of our business.” He reaches up to touch his fiancé on the shoulder, squeezes, “Nothing personal, remember?”

_Here endeth the lesson._

“When did you get so well rounded?”

“It’s all those pies you’ve been feeding me,” Dean quips and nearly dances for joy right there and then when Cas flashes a small, genuine smile. 

Unfortunately, Cas’ no doubt charming response is cut short by Gold Chandelier pointedly clearing his throat. Dean and Cas’ combined attention snaps to him and he smiles.

"Okay, Castiel. We'll take care of Nick for you. Consider it a wedding present."

It’s not quite what they wanted (which is either the opportunity to kill Nick or a gold-plated, artisan reed diffuser - and what the fuck is one of those when it’s at home [Cas insisted it went on the gift list]), but if it results in Nick being dead and their families being safe? Well, yeah. Dean’s 100% on board. 

_Cas the control freak ain't gonna like it though._

He looks to Cas, who - lo and behold - seems less pleased with the arrangement. “He killed Michael and attempted to sexually assault the man who is about to become my husband in a month, and you’re expecting me to have no hand in his death?”

_A month? Fuck._

Dean hasn’t ordered the wedding favors yet. Fuckity fuck. 

If Cas was the type to _pshaw_ , that’s precisely what he’d be doing right now (whilst Dean’s having his wedding-based crisis, alongside the mafia one). Instead, he just silently glowers, waiting for someone in the room to tell him that _yes, that’s exactly what they’re expecting, but at least Nick will be dead and they can all move on._

Good goddamn, this shit is hard work. 

And like always, Cas makes it harder (heh).

It’s Purple Tie who bites the proverbial bullet, says, “That’s _exactly_ what we’re expecting you to do, Castiel.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Seven: Time for a wedding (and a wedding night!)
> 
> This is 75% fluff and 25% porn. If you don’t wanna read about Cas bottoming then just skip from the section ending, “Me too, Dean. Me too.” to the end. 
> 
> (also, apologies this is late, things have been a bit crazy over the past few weeks)

The final month leading up to the wedding is simultaneously the longest and shortest thirty-one days of Dean’s entire life. Things have been hectic as hell with not enough hours in the day to get shit done, but the whole time has felt like a waiting game too.

Which as already established, is not something he’s good at.

As a result, Dean’s stomach has been in knots for weeks and Cas is somehow more contrary than usual. 

Example: those wedding favors that Dean got around to sorting out once they got home from Vegas? Yeah, Cas had been determined to get everyone a personalized Sebenza knife, which is actually a pretty cool idea, just not  _ really _ appropriate. When Dean politely (and okay, there might have been a couple of expletives in there) explained that not everyone attending their wedding was a fucking psychopath who had use for a five hundred dollar folding blade, Cas did the squinty-head tilt thing and then stormed off to his office. 

When Dean had tentatively knocked on the door, suggested through the wood grain that maybe they should just get everyone shots in Harry Potter spell bottles - _ ‘cause that’s quirky and fun, right? _ \- Cas wrenched the door open, murder in his eyes, and then fucked Dean over his desk like he had a personal vendetta against his ass.

Dean obviously wasn’t complaining or anything, but still. His husband-to-be hasn’t exactly been at his most approachable during the countdown to their nuptials. 

In the end, they decided to go with personalized bottles of champagne. Cas thinks it’s boring, Dean thinks  _ sensible. _

And yeah, how fucked up do things have to be that  _ Dean’s _ the sensible one?

It’s bizarro world alright, and when the world finally tilts right way up on its axis, they need to be ready for whatever shit is about to come their way - not bickering over whether the roast beef sandwiches for their evening buffet should be cut diagonally or  _ normally _ .

Seriously though, the kind of crap you find out about people your backs are against a wall. Dean never imagined in his wildest dreams that he’d be marrying an individual who cuts sandwiches into fucking triangles. 

That’s some British afternoon tea shit right there. 

Dean gets it though. Cas - the absolute bridezilla and tyrant that he is - needs to maintain some semblance of control of at least one situation. The shit with Nick? He can’t do fuck all about it lest he incur the wrath of some old cunts with liver spots and gaudy carpets, but he  _ can _ harass the caterers into swapping out the mini hotdogs for halloumi and veg skewers. 

(As the old saying goes, money can’t buy class, y’all).

So, Dean just watches from the wings, doesn’t get involved, ‘cause Cas around those sharp little wooden sticks ain’t something you wanna mess with. Especially not when he’s this on edge. Cas has always been a scary fucker but that was before a member of the Sicilian mafia tried to defile Dean on a dirty warehouse floor. Now, he’s one false move away from challenging the florist to a duel ‘cause of their ‘subpar’ plants.

(The plants are fine).

For a while there they debated whether to put their wedding on hold until they'd seen Nick’s dead body with their own eyes. All the people they love and care about are gonna be in the same place at the same time. It would be an absolutely _ perfect _ time for Nick to come crashing down on them, but as the one who’s spent all the time with the fucker and therefore has a better feel for how his twisted little mind works, Dean knows that he most likely wouldn’t be that obvious.

No, if the Commission doesn't keep their word and Nick does come for them, it’ll be when they least expect it, Spanish Inquisition style. Still, it doesn’t hurt to be cautious, and so they compromised on canceling or going ahead as normal, by making sure that everyone attending from their mob (doesn’t matter what Cas fucking says; according to his own definition, they’re the mob and Dean is totally putting it down on his CV) is carrying. There’s also extra security - which Sammy, as per his job title, has been in charge of organizing. 

And he’s done a pretty decent job too. Dean and Cas both approved the plans and then left Sam to it. When Sam actually puts his mind to it, he’s actually very adept at strategizing and improvising. It’s why he always used to be such a good dungeon master. So yeah, things have worked out for the best, and despite Dean not getting married in the castle - which actually would have made security a nightmare - he’s pretty content and cautiously optimistic with how everything progresses.

Even with the sword of Nick-ocles hanging over their heads. 

Of course, they’re working behind the scenes to find out what they can about Nick. Even if Cas isn’t supposed to do anything about making him dead, the Commission said nothing about them not being able to keep tabs on him. However, even with Charlie’s expert-level hacking ability, there have been no developments. Nothing, zip, nada. It’s like Nick just dropped off the face of the earth or something and whilst Dean likes to imagine that’s the case, he also knows that they’ve never been that lucky.

Which brings Dean neatly to the final name on his list of people to murderize. He got three outta five; a solid D minus, but he’s hoping to bring his average up to a more respectable B by shepherding his ex into the exclusive ‘killed by Dean’s fair hand’ club. Unfortunately, by virtue of being potentially their only source of tracking Nick, Benny’s earned himself a stay of execution. Something he very nearly blows by turning up at the house one day and talking to Sam who had been down in his little security station near the gates. 

Fortunately, Sam had the wherewithal to keep the button on his radio down for the entire conversation so when Dean’s own crackled to life on his desk, he caught the majority of the exchange.

“--Sam, how have you been?”

“Err, I’m okay. Look, I don’t think you should be here.”

Benny had sounded hurt, which is  _ hilarious _ , “I just need some help, Sam, that’s all. Nick is gone and I--” 

Dean had sighed, checked the security cameras. Holding the radio up to his mouth, Dean instructed his brother, “Tell him to fuck off, Sammy. Unless he’s got any useful information on where Nick is, then I’m not helping him.”

Sam knows a small portion of the whole Nick saga. Enough to take their security seriously. 

“Roger that, Dean.”

_ Nerd. _

After he’d spoken, Sam had taken his finger off the button, so Dean could no longer hear the conversation, but that hadn’t mattered, ‘cause watching them talk for another few minutes on the cameras, Dean made it up on his own.

Benny’s side of the conversation could be chalked up to:  _ “Wah, I’m a stupid buttface who will be dead soon, and it’s all my own fault for sticking my dick where it doesn’t belong, and then being stupid enough to not let sleeping dogs lie.” _

Sam’s:  _ “I’m a floppy-haired softie who needs to learn when people only want me for my empathy.” _

Dean thinks they’re both fair assessments. 

  
  


***

  
  


The day before the wedding and they’ve not heard from Nick. Nor have they heard from the Commission. Cas is tense as fuck and Dean’s nervous as hell. 

Surely, someone should’ve been in contact by now? Even if it’s just a polite heads up to let them know that Nick’s on his way with a couple of axes and rage-fuelled determination. 

Cas is pacing about and threatening literally anyone who gets in his way, gangster-bridezilla  _ Say Yes to the Dress _ style, so Dean tells him to fuck off for a couple of hours, _ ‘go torture someone or something, you’re getting on my last fucking nerve’ _ . 

With a glare that would make Albert Fish look sane by comparison, Cas stalks off with Gabriel and Jack (and only ‘cause Dean tells him to make sure he doesn’t go alone, the idiot). When Sam lets him through the security gate at the bottom of the drive, they exchange a few words; ones that cause Sam to glance up at the CCTV camera, bottom lip caught between his teeth. 

_ Cas, you asshole. _

Dean spends the afternoon working on the final draft of his vows in relative peace and quiet, whilst the venue dressers sort the rest of the decorations without the imminent threat of death should a strip of lights be placed too far to the left. Mrs. C drops by his office with the bag of lingerie and ropes that she’s been hiding for him. She tells Dean not to worry, that in the run-up to their wedding, Mr. C was just as bad if not worse than Cas.

Dean doubts Mr. C vented his frustration by pulling out the fingernails of low-level drug dealers, but he thanks her for the reassurance anyway.

It’s been a couple of hours since Cas fucked off and Dean’s just about to either call him or get something to eat - he hasn’t decided yet which he’d rather deal with first (he totally has and it’s most certainly  _ not  _ his stroppy fiancé) when his phone vibrates in his palm.

It’s an unknown number.

Dean closes the door to his office and answers, “Hello?”

“Mr. Winchester,” An unpleasant voice smarms from the other end of the line, “It’s done.”

It takes a couple of seconds for Dean to realize what they’re talking about. 

_ Odd, that they’ve chosen not to call Cas. _

Huh. Maybe they tried calling his cell first?

Dean’s not sure of the protocol here, so he’s kinda making this shit up on the fly (an allegory for his entire life), “I’m gonna need you to be a little more specific. You could be the cake people or criminals.”

Though the prices charged for a bit of sponge and some frosting is pretty criminal. Forget money laundering, Cas should be in the wedding business.

“The Commission hired me to take care of your little problem. It is done. Nick is dead.”

The relief that floods Dean is near orgasmic. Their problems are over and sure, it’s a shame that Dean or Cas didn’t get to do it themselves, but the last time either one of them attempted, they fucked it up, so perhaps it’s for the best.

Through his excitement, Dean finds the wherewithal to ask, “Do you have proof?”

There’s a short pause, “I have sent it to the Commission to forward on to you, if they so choose.”

Cas will force them to choose.

“Okay,” Dean breathes, a hand in his hair, not quite sure what to do with himself now that this huge weight has been lifted from his shoulders. “Great. Thanks.”

He hangs up and immediately scrolls to Cas’ number, calls his fiancé.

“Dean?” There’s worry eking around the edges of his slightly breathless tone when he answers after several rings, “Is everything alright?”

Dean can hear sobs in the background along with the voices of Gabriel and Jack speaking in low murmurs.

“I just got a phone call from what I assume was the Commission’s assassin? Cleaner? I dunno. Anyways, ding dong, the fucker’s dead.”

“Really?” Cas’ voice rumbles down the line. “Are they going to send proof?”

“Yup. Well, he’s sending it to the Commission. It’s up to them to forward it to us. Their decision, apparently.”

Dean doesn't miss the sly humor in Cas’ voice when he says, “So no decision at all then.” There’s a bit of rustling, the sound of steady footsteps on concrete, and then Dean hears the whimpers and jagged gasps of what Dean presumes is Cas’ plaything for the afternoon.

The man begins babbling, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry-- it won’t happen again, I swear Castiel. I-- I promise you. It won’t happen again.”

“I know it won’t,” Cas replies coolly and it’s really not Dean’s fault that Cas being his usual badass self is starting to have an...err, _ effect _ on him. A split second later, there’s the slash of what sounds like a blade through the air, followed by the slick gurgle of blood and wet choking. 

Cas’ voice is back in Dean’s ear at full volume again, “I’ll be home in a half-hour.”

  
  


***

  
  


It’s the day of the wedding and Dean is going to have a coronary. Technically, this ain’t his first rodeo. He’s been married before -  _ obviously _ \- but he’s never been married to someone that he can be his complete and unapologetic self around. 

Even if Cas makes him  _ want _ to be sorry sometimes.

But despite feeling completely right about this marriage and Cas in general, Dean is nervous as fuck. Like, sweaty palms, racing heart, about-to-run-the-fuck-away-in-total-panic nervous.

Unfortunately, there’s not really anywhere to run. As promised, security is tighter than a nun’s cunt (thanks, Sammy), and they’re getting married at home, so their house-mansion is decorated to within an inch of its life (and more importantly, to Cas’ specifications). Which means there’s literally nowhere to hide either.

The decorations do look good though, despite being a barrier to Dean’s runaway bride bit, and Dean has to admit that he’s pretty pleased that he’s marrying the one gangster in the entirety of the US that actually has taste. 

“It’s gonna be okay,” Charlie’s telling him as she fiddles with his tie, “Castiel loves you. Like,  _ a lot. _ ” She pats his chest to signify she’s done with her unnecessary grooming.

Dean steps back, spreads his shaking hands, “Do I look okay?”

“Well, you’re missing a sword and a chainmail collar, but yes. As always, you are disgustingly handsome. Though, I still think tuxes are boring.”

Dean grins through his nerves, “Eh, you haven’t seen Cas in one yet.”

“True,” She taps her temple, “But I do have a pretty thorough imagination.”

  
  


***

Turns out, Charlie’s imagination and Dean’s memory are poor renditions for the real thing. Cas is the very picture of dangerous sophistication in his slim-fit, entirely black tux. It’s similar enough to the classic one he wore to that stupid charity ball, but standing there at the makeshift altar, haloed by the soft morning light, he looks a thousand times better than he did back then. He fills the thing out so damn nicely, and the all-black contrasted against the blue of his eyes and the verdant green of the trees behind him is just…  _ yeah. _ He looks like every sexy gangster fantasy Dean’s had over the years, and all thoughts of running the fuck away evaporate when he catches sight of the fire in Cas’ eyes as he stares at Dean in return, the pair of them caught helpless on each other. Like always. 

Lucky doesn’t even begin to describe how down Dean feels as he steps foot out from underneath the veranda.

There are plenty of areas around the fifteen-acre grounds where they could have had the ceremony. Dean initially suggested the den, just ‘cause it might rain, and if he’s going to actually put effort into looking decent for a change, then it would be a shame to have it ruined.

Though of course, he’s not opposed to Cas getting all wet. Is actively hoping for it, in fact, which is one of the reasons why they ended up deciding on the large hexagonal courtyard area at the rear of the house; right underneath the balcony outside the library which is on the upper split level grounds. It’s leafy green all around, crisp and gorgeous as winter slides into spring. The guests are seated in the veranda, able to watch through the open-air gallery, and it’s all kind of gross and romantic.

(Dean loves it).

As he walks (escorted by Charlie, ‘cause she wanted to ‘give him away’) toward Cas and his future, Dean can’t ever remember being this sure about anything, can’t remember feeling this sense of  _ right _ . Like he’s doing something entirely for selfish purposes. Being with Cas has given him a freedom he didn’t realize existed, and sure, it’s not like this lifestyle is all guns and fun (not all the time anyways), but it does fit Dean pretty fucking well.

What doesn’t fit Dean, however, is this fucking song that Cas chose. Dean knew it was coming, but it still doesn’t make it any easier to not smack his fiance upside the head for making him walk down the ‘aisle’ to,  _ ‘I am a man who will fight for your honor, I’ll be the hero that you’re dreaming of. We’ll live forever, knowing together that we did it all for the glory of love.’ _

He is absolutely  _ not _ getting a little emotional about it. It’s a stupid fucking song that doesn’t make Dean nostalgic for the days when he and Cas weren’t anything to each other, nor does it make him happy as hell that those days are over. 

Obviously, Cas, the fucker, knows this, because there’s already a hint of a smirk at the corner of his mouth as he watches Dean approach. 

“Hey, Cas,” Dean flashes his very soon-to-be-husband a self-effacing smile, taking his place opposite him. It feels  _ right. _ Normal. The way things should be. 

Once more, Cas appraises him with the kind of blatant want that makes Dean squirm, “Hello, Dean.”

He’s so painstakingly put together that Dean can’t wait to take him apart. 

_ Tonight is gonna be so much fun. _

To his left, Dean’s best man and forever irritating little-big-brother elbows him in the ribs, “Knock it off you two. There are kids here.”

“Yeahhh,” Dean says, not taking his eyes off of Cas, “That’s really not the deterrent you think it is, Sammy.”

Cheeks aflame, Sam coughs into his fist as the officiant takes up his place in front of them. Balthazar - Cas’ choice for best man ( _ best _ , though? Really?) just grins that sleazy grin, but thankfully doesn’t deign to say anything. 

Her job done, Charlie leans in to kiss Dean on the cheek, so Dean takes the opportunity to whisper, “‘Mawwiage. Mawwiage is what bwings us togethaa today,’” because there’s never a wrong time to quote  _ The Princess Bride _ .

No matter what Cas’ disdainful eyebrow arch suggests.

Turning her attention to Cas, Charlie smiles apologetically and says, “Yeah, he’s your problem now. Good luck,” before going to take her seat under the veranda.

As far as giving away the bride(groom) goes, it’s probably not the worst attempt ever made.

At least she didn’t dust her hands off afterward.

Happily for Dean, his fiance doesn’t seem to be having any second thoughts about manacling himself to Dean forever. 

Though, any feelings of uncertainty are probably tempered by the fact that he knows a fair few ways to dispose of a body if Dean decides to cause him problems. And also the fact that Dean gives stellar blow jobs. 

Two excellent founding principles of a healthy, happy marriage right there.

As the officiant makes the opening statement,  _ “Friends, we have been invited here today to share with Castiel and Dean a very important moment in their lives...”  _ yadda yadda, Dean lets himself wonder exactly what Cas is gonna say during the exchanging of the vows. Maybe it really will be the ode to Dean’s mouth that he promised, which would be both inappropriate and kinda hot. 

_ So, Cas’ MO in a nutshell.  _

Nah, for all his wisecracks, Cas has more grace than that.

Dean though? Dean doesn’t. 

_ Probably shoulda taken that dick joke out.  _

“...If any person can show just cause why they may not be joined together, let them speak now or forever hold their peace."

Dean turns his attention to their small-ish selection of friends and family. Mostly friends though, ‘cause neither of them has much family to speak of. Cas less so than Dean. 

He glares, making sure that Gabriel - the preternatural jokester - doesn’t see fit to put in an objection just for shits and giggles.

Thankfully, everyone remains silent (even Sammy, which had been a concern, despite his status as best man), allowing the officiant to announce that they’re at the vows portion of the ceremony. He gestures for Cas to go first. 

Looking about as nervous as Dean’s ever seen him - which to the untrained eye is still cool as the fucking Fonze, leather jacket and all - Cas fixates his pretty blue eyes on Dean and starts to speak.

Without notes, because  _ of course _ he has to show Dean up.

“Dean, I’m not going to tell you that I fell in love with you at first sight, because I know that everyone falls at least a little in love with you the first time they see you. Instead, I want to tell you about the first time that you impressed me. To a lot of people that may seem less romantic, but it was when I knew that you were more than you presented yourself as."

Heart in his throat, Dean listens on with the rest of the congregation as they all learn together when Cas realized that maybe, just maybe, Dean was somebody worth paying attention to.

Turns out that it was some insignificant moment when Cas was doing a drop at the auto repair shop. Back when all Dean was involved in was the money laundering at his paltry fifteen percent. An entire lifetime ago, feels like. 

During his speech, Cas describes in great detail how Dean was helping Jo out with the engine of some car, swift and competent. But as soon as Dean turned around and saw Cas, he shifted before Cas’ eyes into someone proficient and capable in Cas’ area of expertise as well. Someone determined and accomplished. Someone who fit perfectly into Cas’ world and his business.

“It was then that I truly appreciated your capacity and intelligence for anything you turn your hand to. Your strength of character and resoluteness to make the best of any situation you find yourself in is something I greatly admire," Cas explains, earnest as fuck, "I'd wanted you since the first time I saw you, but it was then that I realized I wanted to  _ keep  _ you.”

Holy crap. 

Cas plows on with his closer, "You never cease to amaze me with your impressive talents in multiple areas--” Dean fights so hard against the filthy smirk he desperately wants to give Cas at that, “--You would do anything for the ones you love and I am honored to count myself amongst them. There is nobody that I would rather have by my side than you, Dean. I promise I will be your equal partner in a loving relationship, for as long as we both shall live.”

Well, fuck. Either Dean’s a little misty-eyed or someone’s cutting onions around here. 

"Dean?" The officiant turns to him, "Do you have anything you'd like to say?"

How the fuck is he supposed to top that? 

Heh. That’s something for him to worry about later tonight.  _ Wink wink, nudge nudge.  _

"Umm, yeah." With sweaty palms and shaking hands, Dean unfolds his sheet of paper. He clears his throat, tries not to look at Cas, 'cause he'll cry or something equally stupid. "Cas. I spent a long time trying to come up with the right words to express just how much you mean to me. Words that aren't  _ fuck _ or some kind of variation."

There's a ripple of soft laughter through the guests. 

"Err, so. Here goes. You terrified me in the beginning, for obvious reasons. But it was more than that. You’ve always seen me in the way I was afraid of being seen. I fell in love with you for too many reasons to mention here - it would take days to list all of the things I adore about you - but from a purely selfish standpoint, I think it all started when I realized that you believe in me. Like I believe in you. You make me feel as though I’m worth a damn and for somebody that has spent most of their life assuming otherwise, that’s one hell of an achievement. Not only that, but you're a  _ fantastic _ dad to both Claire and Ben and you’re a damn good businessman.” Ninety percent of the crowd here knows what Dean’s referring to, but for the ten percent, he doesn’t elaborate. Instead he presses on, “The way I feel about you isn’t just because we have amazing sex--" everyone groans, including Sam, "--but because I feel a genuine connection with you. You get me, Cas. And I want to spend the rest of my life getting you.” He refolds the paper, slides it into his inside jacket pocket. He finally looks up at Cas, grins coquettishly, “In every way possible.”

He can practically hear the collective eye roll from the attendees, but Cas’ reaction is more subdued; just the barest hint of mirth in his eyes. But beyond that, there’s a fierce kind of protectiveness too, and  _ reverence _ . 

There’s only one thing left to say, really.

“I fucking love you, Cas.” Dean tells him and means it with every fiber of his being. 

  
  
  


***

  
  


Everything after that happens in a blur of forest green and tiramisu. They cut the cake, eat their extravagant afternoon ten-course taster menu - at the top table Cas leans over into Dean’s space, murmurs, _ “Remind me why we didn’t get burgers instead?” _ \- and then it’s time for the evening party.

The guests are redirected from the house to the pool, with its wet bar and underwater grotto. On the way there, everyone coos over the expensive lighting strung up between the trees and fountains, casting the winding paved paths in an ethereal glow as night descends on the grounds. 

It’s beautiful and sappy and romantic, and Dean kinda loves it. 

As they walk together to the rear of the guests, he bumps shoulders with his husband - _fuck, that will literally never get old_ \- and says, “This is pretty nice, reckon we can leave the lights up permanently?” 

“Even whilst we’re away?” Cas asks, watching as Ben and Claire race on ahead up the path, weaving between guests. 

“Oh, yeah,” Dean says as casual as you like, “I completely forgot that we’re going on our honeymoon tomorrow. You gonna tell me where yet?”

The look Cas slants him suggests that Dean’s feeble attempt at subterfuge ain’t fooling anyone, least of all the one person who is completely fluent in  _ Dean _ , “No.”

“Not even a clue?”

“No.”

They pass the central water fountain with all its sparkly lights and glistening water and Dean huffily informs Cas that he is the,  _ “Worst Husband Ever.” _

“Already?” Cas asks with an arched eyebrow that Dean can’t quite see in the low light, but knows with a comforting kind of certainty is there, “I was hoping to actually earn that title. Maybe bring some strippers through the house once in a while, do drugs in front of the kids, get a beer belly now that I don’t have to impress you anymore…”

_ Hilarious. _

“That doesn’t make you the worst husband ever, that just makes you either every mobster cliche ever or white trash,” Dean points out with a grin, “And also super alluring by the way. I can see you now in a stained wife-beater with your redneck tats and--”

“--‘ _ Redneck tats _ ’?” Cas interrupts, affronted.

“That’s what you took away from everything I just said?”

“If anything, you’re the one with the trashy tattoo,” Cas informs him all haughtiness and ruffled feathers, as they round the final corner on their journey to the pool area, “How low-brow getting your significant other’s name inked on you.”

Dean laughs, “Yeah, but fortunately for me, it drives you kinda wild.” And ‘cause he’s a shit, he adds, “Also, I didn’t go  _ really  _ trashy, I coulda got a tramp stamp, and didn’t.”

Cas makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat and Dean’s grin widens as he leans in close, deliberately brushing his mouth over the shell of Cas’ ear, “Maybe that could be my next one, whaddya say, Cas?”

  
  


***

The evening buffet turns out to be a hit; gross halloumi skewers and all. Most of the guests pick their way through the food in between copious amounts of alcohol and that’s a philosophy Dean would usually be living his life by, but he wants to be (mostly) sober for his wedding night.

Cas isn’t drinking much either - rarely does, actually - which is a good thing too. Even if it’s kinda weird that the only two (mostly) sober people are the wedding couple, but judging by the shenanigans taking place in the pool and under the natural waterfall, it’s probably for the best that Dean isn’t wasted, ‘cause otherwise he’d be in there as well, letting Cas do distinctly un-kid-friendly things to him. 

Granted, the only kids left now are teenagers, or soon-to-be teenagers, but nobody wants to see their parents getting it on. 

Gabriel and his wife Kali don’t seem to care about decency though and Dean very quickly averts his gaze when things veer into R-rated territory. He might have to send Cas over there with a broom in a minute to break that shit up; Dean hasn’t even had sex in their huge pool yet, he’ll be damned if Gabriel gets there first.

He watches Cas dancing with both Claire and Ben in an almost deja vu moment of Charlie’s wedding. Cas’ tux jacket is draped over a nearby chair, and his shirt sleeves are rolled up into the crook of his elbows. It’s the first time Dean’s had a proper look at the waistcoat Cas is wearing and  _ damn _ , he looks good. Cas has always worn sophistication like a second skin, regardless of whether he’s dressed down in a band shirt and jeans, or dressed up in suits and tuxedos, but this look is right up there amongst Dean’s favorites. Might even take the number one spot (which, up until now had been occupied by the outfit he’d worn way back when he beat the shit out of Benny and his restaurant with a baseball bat). 

And with that, it mildly occurs to Dean that Cas’ choice of outfit today may not be a coincidence, the absolute asshole.

_ Long con, indeed. _

The DJ is playing some inane pop song that Jess requested for Madison a good half hour ago before Sam took her home, when Lisa sidles up to him, sloppy drunk and happy. “God. You two are so cute.”

“But like in a manly way, yeah?” Dean says, tearing his eyes away from his husband and kids.

Ignoring the question, she pats him on the shoulder, “I’m really happy for you, handsome. You done good. I mean, not only do you get to go to bed with  _ that, _ ” She gestures in Cas’ direction with her wine glass and most of the liquid sloshes over the rim, “But you get all of this as well!” She turns on the spot, staggering a little and Dean reaches out to steady her. “Look at that waterfall! You have a waterfall in your huge back garden. A  _ waterfall!” _

Yup, it does take some getting used to.

Once he’s satisfied that she’s not gonna fall flat on her face, Dean removes his hands from her shoulders, “How drunk are you?”

“Drunk enough to be having a good time,” She winks and it’s just so ridiculous and un-Lisa that Dean huffs a laugh. 

She burps loudly, distinctly un-ladylike and tells Dean in a harsh whisper, “The food is repeating on me.”

“Value for money is what I call it.” Dean quips and a bright sloppy grin spreads across her pretty face. 

“You’re a good man, Dean Winchester. You deserve all this. You deserve the best. I’m sorry that you ever thought any different. He makes you happy and that makes me happy. Regardless of what he does for a living.” She frowns, “Which we’re not supposed to talk about, but I know,  _ I know. _ ”

After everything, he’d be a little concerned for her intelligence if she hadn’t figured it out.

Thankfully, before they get the opportunity to continue this conversation and Dean has to either lie or admit that yes, yes his husband is a murdering criminal amongst other things, the man himself materializes at Dean’s side.

_ Right _ as a familiar song fades in over the cheery bubblegum pop. 

“No,” Dean tells him, “No way.”

Cas smirks, “It’s tradition, come on.”

He tries to protest again, but Lisa is waving goodbye and attempting to drain her already empty glass, so Dean lets himself be dragged out onto the center of the makeshift dance floor. Cas hauls him in close, chest to chest, hip to hip, and he smells so good that Dean just goes with it, letting Cas lead with Dean shuffling along the best he can to catch up. Cas’ hand is warm and possessive in the small of his back and Dean presses in indecently close.

The DJ announces their first dance over the speaker system, so everyone else moves away, letting them have their space. 

_ ‘Tonight it's very clear, as we're both lying here, _

_ There's so many things, I want to say, _

_ I will always love you, I would never leave you alone...’ _

"You do know that this is  _ the _ worst song ever written don't you?"

"I'm aware," Castiel acknowledges with a wry smile, "Admittedly, I didn't think it all the way through when I kept changing your ringtone in the beginning. I wasn’t envisaging our relationship progressing the way it has.”

_ Understatement right there. _

"It might be time for a new song." Dean tells him, mock-regretfully. "'Cause I do not want to still be dancing to this in fifty years' time."

“If you can call _ this _ dancing,” Cas teases, “I've seen dead bodies with more rhythm."

"You know what, Cas? Anyone else, I'd think they were exaggerating for comedic effect. Not you though. I wouldn't put it past you to Norman Bates it up with corpses, you fucking weirdo."

“It’s reassuring to know that although we’ve made a lifelong commitment to one another that things haven’t actually changed. You’re still a vulgar pain in my ass.”

“And I plan to be for the rest of our lives.  _ Babe. _ ”

Cas releases him with a put-upon sigh, “Fine. If you want to change our song, then go ahead. But just know that I won’t be responsible for any ills that befall us after this.”

“What are you, a Victorian Clairvoyant?” He adopts Cas’ deep timbre, mimicking, “ _ ‘Ills that before us _ , _ ’ _ ” before shaking his head with faux disappointment. “Is this the part where I find out that you believe in all that zodiac shit too? ‘Cause that’s grounds for divorce. Probably could get an annulment, actually.”

Cas gives him a  _ look _ , though Dean can tell that he’s trying not to smile, so being the magnanimous guy that he is, he relents and bounces away under the watchful eye of close to a hundred people. He tells the DJ which song to play and then goes back to Cas who is waiting for him in the center of all their friends and family, heart-stoppingly handsome and Dean’s  _ husband _ .

Fuck. Dean is the luckiest guy in the world.

_ ‘I don't know what it is _

_ That makes me feel alive, _

_ I don't know how to wake _

_ The things that sleep inside, _

_ I only wanna see the light _

_ That shines behind your eyes…’ _

Pressed together from their chests to their knees, their arms around one another’s waists, Cas tilts his head, "Not a bad choice."

"Better than  _ Fucked With a Knife _ , right?"

"Marginally." Cas concedes with a smirk.

_ ‘...Because we need each other, _

_ We believe in one another, _

_ And I know we're going to uncover, _

_ What's sleepin' in our soul…’ _

Throat tight with emotion, Dean tells his husband, "I’m so glad you didn’t shoot me in the head, Cas.”

"Me too, Dean. Me too.”

  
  


***

Dean and Cas have had a lot of sex. Like,  _ wish-upon-a-monkey-paw-to-get-laid-and-then-end-up-with-a-sex-addiction _ amount of sex. Like,  _ how-the-hell-do-they-actually-have-the-time-to-fuck-that-much _ amount of sex. 

But this is their first time as a married couple and as Dean frets in their ensuite bathroom, Cas is probably out there cool as the East Antarctic Plateau, the asshole (Cas, not Antarctica). 

Dean stands in front of the foggy mirror, anticipation winding high making his cheeks pink and hands a little clammy. He looks good, he knows it, but of course, he’s been pretty tight-lipped about what he’s gonna ask of Cas and now he’s beginning to think that it’s a bad idea. 

_ Never find out if you don’t go out there. _

Fuck.

He takes a deep breath and yanks the bathroom door open, steamy air escaping in a rush behind him.

Cas has done as Dean asked -  _ demanded _ \- and is sitting on the corner of their California king completely naked, all that glorious inked skin and flawless muscle on display for Dean. His dick is hard and curved up toward his stomach, shine of precome at the tip. 

Dean’s not the only one getting a good look, ‘cause Cas is openly staring at Dean in return, eyes unfocused and glassy, not sure where to look first at Dean’s ivory lingerie; the silky stockings, the lace suspender belt, or the satin panties. 

“I thought the matching bra might be a bit much,” Dean tells him as Cas’ attention hones in on the lace garter around Dean’s left bicep. It has a cute bow on it. “It’s a wedding tradition, couldn’t leave it out,” Dean explains, dumbfounded expression on his own face no doubt matching Cas’.

“You look...” Cas’ inability to word is seriously turning Dean’s crank, so he teases, just a little bit more. 

“How do I look, Cas?”

“Uh.”

“Eloquent,” Dean smirks and sashays over to Cas, watching him as he gracefully rises to his feet. Dean reaches out once he’s close enough, just wanting to touch. The back of his hand brushes against one of Cas’ nipples and the sharp intake of breath Dean receives in response has his heart rate kicking up a gear. Cas stares Dean down with dark, devastated eyes, lips parted, breathing shallow, words apparently beyond him.

Good. Should make the next step a little easier if he’s pliant and speechless.

“I’m gonna tie you up now, m’kay, Cas?”

Cas still doesn’t say anything, just grabs for Dean’s hips, thumbs under the lace belt, stroking the waistband of Dean’s panties. Dean magnanimously lets him because it’s the last time he’s gonna be touching Dean tonight. 

Except, then Cas’ hands are everywhere, crushing Dean to his chest and sure, Cas is all wiry strength and horny determination, but Dean’s a little more cognizant and he manages to extricate himself from Cas’ grip, backing up, and Cas follows, predatorial and intent on Dean.

Okay, so Dean might have overestimated how easy this was gonna be. 

“Cas,” Dean warns, palms up. “No.”

Cas drops to his knees in front of Dean, tugging on the panty waistband and pressing a kiss to Dean’s hip over the scratchy pattern of the suspender belt. He palms Dean’s dick through the satin panties, mouth hot and  _ right there _ . 

“Cas,” Dean says through gritted teeth, already losing control of the situation and not all that concerned about it. Either way, Dean gets what he wants, which is _Cas,_ but still. 

_ You’ve been waiting months for this. Don’t fuck it up now. _

He’ll likely never get another chance for this (not without winning another bet) and so he reluctantly pushes Cas gently away, “ _ No _ .”

Cas rocks back on his heels, staring unseeingly up at Dean, eyes glazed over with lust. God, he looks so good down there on his knees at Dean’s mercy. The things Dean could do to him right now,  _ Christ _ .

_ No. Focus. _

Dean slides out from under Cas, catching his husband rising to his feet gracefully out of the corner of his eye as he hurries to the bag hidden under their bed. He can feel Cas’ stare on him the whole way, that blue-eyed heat and intensity, and it makes him shiver and his hands tremble as he pulls out the supplies he brought with him. 

He senses Cas’ approach and before Dean can turn around, Cas is molding himself to Dean’s back, rubbing against him like an overly-friendly (overly-horny) cat, and Dean would laugh at Cas’ nonverbal need for Dean, but having six feet of super fucking hot husband humping him is not how Dean wanted this night to go.

“Cas,” He tries, “Cas, get off me.”

Cas’ grip tightens, “Let me, Dean.” He murmurs, preoccupied, thumbs hooking into the panty waistband and tugging. “Let me fuck you. Want to be inside you.” He sounds lust-drunk, completely single-minded and it’s pretty damn gratifying to know that he can reduce Cas to this, but he clamps his hands over Cas’, halting his attempts to literally get into Dean’s panties.

“No.” He says, firmly, “That’s not how it’s gonna go tonight.” He turns in the cage of Cas’ arms, hips aligning in a way that makes them both moan, “Tonight, you’re gonna let me fuck you.”

  
  


***

Cas is beautiful like this. Objectively, Dean knows that his husband is gorgeous. From the first moment Dean saw him in all his graceful, terrifying glory, he wanted him, but this is different. Cas is fucking  _ art _ tied up like this; the sensual, long line of his body, the curves and swell of muscle and inked skin. Fuck, he’s perfect. The natural fiber rope Dean has used is pulled taut across Cas’ flawless flesh, the soft white of it looped, tied, and knotted all the way from his wrists, along his arms, over his chest, abdomen, and back. His hands are bound together as if in supplication and tethered by another length of rope by the double column tie around his wrists to the headboard. Balanced on his knees and elbows, ass in the air, largely helpless and giving control over entirely to Dean, Cas is easily the most alluring thing Dean’s ever seen.

The fact that he’s even allowing Dean to do this at all is kind of a miracle. Cas is the biggest control freak since Napoleon (see: the last time Dean bound his wrists and he broke the headboard trying to get loose and touch Dean, his bridezilla turn ‘cause he couldn’t kill Nick himself, his everyday behavior) and yet, here he is, giving Dean the power over his body and orgasm.

_ Yeah. _

This is kind of a big deal. 

Dean has left Cas’ legs free, because as much as he’d love to see Cas  _ completely _ immobilized, this is more than enough. 

_ For now.  _

Though, despite appearances, the pretty geometric patterns Dean’s utilized to bind Cas are mostly for his aesthetic appreciation rather than a serious attempt at restraining Cas (he’d definitely love to give that a try, however, if Cas wants to do this again) and yeah, he’s definitely  _ appreciating _ the hell outta this aesthetic. Cas’ leanly muscular back is divided by the hexagonal ropework softly indenting his ink, starting at his broad shoulders and halting at the dip of his spine. 

Dean’s heart kicks up as he kneels behind Cas on the bed, mattress sinking beneath his weight. He smooths his palms over the firm muscle of Cas’ ass, “How you doing there, Cas?”

“Fine.”

“Just fine?” Dean ducks his head to press a kiss at the base of Cas’ spine, “Not wondering what I’m gonna do to you now that I have you like this? Not worried that I might just leave you here all trussed up and desperate - knowing that you’d fully deserve it for that stunt you pulled that day at city hall?” Cas says nothing, but his breath catches in his throat as Dean pulls his cheeks apart and holds him open, trailing kisses from the dip of his spine lower and lower. 

“Dean,” He grits, already sounding fucked out and Dean hasn’t even got his tongue in him yet. Thumbs slipping in to open Cas up even more, Dean rectifies that oversight, and flicks his tongue over Cas’ hole. 

Cas jolts like he’s been electrocuted, knees slipping on the bedsheets and Dean grins, licks again, once, twice, working his tongue past the tight ring of muscle, shoving hard and slick and making Cas moan lowly in his throat.

“Anyone ever done this for you, Cas?” Dean asks, breath humid against Cas’ skin, genuinely curious. Though he already has a pretty good idea what the answer is. 

“No,” Comes Cas’ muffled response from where his face is buried in the pillows, back arched, arms stretched above his head. 

“You ever even bottomed before?”

“No.”

_ Fuck. _

“How’s it feel Cas, knowing that I’m the only one who’s ever gonna be in you?”

‘Cause for Dean it feels pretty fucking heady. Cas has done a lot of crazy shit in his life, but he’s never had a dick in his ass, and Dean gets to be the one to show him how fucking amazing it can be? Best wedding present ever. 

He doesn’t wait for the answer, just dives back in, shoving his tongue in deep, pushing as far as he can until his teeth scrape against Cas, and his husband arches back into it, all wanton and slutty, and Dean honestly didn’t think he could love Cas even more, but that was before he got a tongue up his ass and went all squirmy pornstar for it. 

Breath hot and damp on Cas’ sensitive skin, Cas moans with each broad lick of Dean’s tongue, hips moving, and hard dick smearing tacky pre-come against his stomach and jute rope.

Lifting his head, Cas growls out a guttural,  _ “Dean.” _

Taking it for the plea Cas is too stubborn to make, Dean sucks on his own middle finger, getting it nice and wet, before sinking the digit into the burning heat of Cas’s hole, alongside the dip of his tongue. Cas’ whole body jerks as Dean begins to pump the entire length of his finger in and out, building a steady, but gentle rhythm that has his husband crying out in frustration every time he deliberately misses the bundle of nerves that Cas knows objectively feel good, but has never experienced for himself.

Dean pulls away, licks his lips, tasting the day-end strength of him, “That feel good, babe?”

“Stop talking.” Cas orders, and Dean gets the distinct impression that if he weren’t tied up, he’d be grabbing fistfuls of Dean’s hair and forcing him to get back down to business, but providentially for Dean and his hair, Cas ain’t in any position to be doing that or making demands.

“But I like talking,” Dean settles down on his stomach on the bed, his own dick trapped in the panties, hard and needy, but he needs this more. He slides another finger in alongside the first, pushing and twisting, just barely grazing Cas’ prostate in a cruel tease that has Cas letting out a throaty moan, “We should talk more. I think that’s our problem.”

“My problem is that your tongue isn’t in my ass right now.”

Dean bites the firm flesh of Cas’s ass, two fingers deep. 

Cas growls. 

“If you want more, you could always just ask nicely. Strange concept for you, I know.”

He removes his fingers gently and leans across the bed, searching in the duvet shoved to one side for the lube. 

“Dean.”

_ It’s around here somewhere. _

“ _ Dean. _ ”

_ A-ha! _

He locates it and triumphantly returns to his kneeling position between Cas’ spread legs. Cas’ thighs are shaking, knees slipping wider and wider, and Dean’s beginning to think that it’s a deliberate invitation.

“Yeah?” Dean asks, liberally squirting lube onto his index and middle fingers. 

“Come on,” Cas cants his hips back and who knew that his super toppy, dominant gangster husband would be such a needy little bottom? 

“What do you want, Cas?”

“Your tongue in my ass. I thought we’d established this.”

Sassy. Especially for someone who’s about to get fucked for this first time. 

“Ask me nicely.”

Dean pushes his lube slick forefinger against Cas’ hole, slipping it in up to the second knuckle. Velvet and oh so fucking tight, Dean can’t wait to get his dick in there, fuck Cas speechless, show him exactly how he makes Dean feel.

With each push to the knuckle of Dean’s finger, a tiny sound escapes Cas’ throat and he fucks back on Dean’s digit with reckless abandon, wanton and desperate and Dean had no idea it would be like this, thought he’d have to coax Cas through it, all gentle and virgin-like.

As usual, Cas is happy to prove him wrong.

“That feel good?” Dean slides his middle finger in alongside, watching as Cas’ rim stretches to accommodate, delicate skin slightly pink around where Dean begins and Cas ends. He brings his face against the curve of Cas’ ass, tongue sweeping across the skin in broad lingering licks that have Cas’ breath coming in little hiccupped groans. 

Dean presses a wet kiss to the sweat-damp dip of Cas’ spine, sliding in a third finger, rubbing Cas loose, deliberately skating past his prostate once again. He wants to save that delicious little treat for when he’s inside Cas, “Come on babe, talk to me. Whilst you still can.”

_ That _ gets a reaction. 

Albeit, a small one.

Cas shudders and Dean grins. 

“Fine, Cas. Have it your way. You’re not gonna ask, then you’re not gonna be able to.” He slips his fingers free, awkwardly works the satin panties down his thighs, lifts one knee and then the other to drag them the rest of the way down his legs and off. He leans across Cas’ back, dick riding the crease of Cas’ ass, knots of the rope digging into his sternum and chest, and demands, “Open your mouth.”

Cas side-eyes him, glances at the panties balled into Dean’s fist. 

“ _ Now, _ Cas.”

Dean’s stomach tightens as Cas wordlessly obeys. Fuck, he’s so damn hot like this; compliant yet still defiant, letting Dean do whatever the hell he wants, but with the promise of retribution in his heavy-lidded gaze. Tying him up, Dean had been so nervous, fingers slipping over the knots, but Cas had remained hard the entire time, giving Dean that wicked, knowing little smirk. 

Asshole.

He stuffs his panties in Cas’ mouth, making sure he’s comfortable before Dean moves away and back to his position behind his husband, dick nestled up against the curve of his ass cheek. Dean decides to keep the suspender belt and stockings on so Cas can feel the scratch of the belt against his ass, the silk of the stockings against the back of his thigh when he’s getting fucked. 

Dean squirts even more lube onto his fingers, shine of it dripping between the webs, “You good?” He presses his index and middle fingers right in where his dick is throbbing to be, rubbing small circles, wanting to make sure that Cas is ready for this, but he’s running out of patience. 

Cas makes a muffled grunt of affirmation. 

_ Fuck.  _

Cas cants his hips back, impatient and shameless, and Dean wishes he could tease him about this later, but it’s just too fucking, brain-meltingly hot. He slips his fingers out again, squirts plenty of lube onto his cock.

Tugging him open with his thumb, other palm sloping over the curve of his ass, holding him still, Dean lines up and pushes inside, heat teasing the tip of his cock. The slow,  _ ohholyfucksogood  _ squeeze of Cas’ body around the head of his dick is nearly Dean’s undoing. He’s fucked people before -  _ obviously  _ \- guys and girls, but this is a whole other level. 

Cas exhales harshly, body stiffening and Dean murmurs, “It’s gonna feel so good, I promise, Cas. So fucking good.” There’s a thin sheen of sweat on Cas’ tattooed skin, and he turns his head so that Dean can see the dark-eyed, pink-cheeked, almost feral look on his handsome face. And those panties in his mouth? Fuuuck. There’s no way they ain’t doing this again.

Dean rocks his hips gently, inching his way inside, biting down on his lower lip hard enough to draw blood, fighting against the urge to just start fucking Cas until neither of them can move for days. His thighs and the tops of the stockings are covered in lube - more than necessary - but it’s worth it when he sinks in further, sliding home a few moments and inches later, body resting against Cas’.

It drags a groan from them both, chests falling and rising in sync as they just breathe together, joined in the most intimate way. Cas’ inky lashes flutter against the sweep of his cheekbones, and Dean wishes he could reach his phone to take a picture. 

He’s not gonna last long, so he needs to make this good for Cas. He rocks his hips, just once, a quick half thrust, and  _ fuck _ . It’s fucking excruciating how Cas feels, the clutch of his body around Dean’s dick, so hot and tight. 

“You gonna take it for me, Cas?”

All that bare skin and ink just for Dean. He gets a grip on the nearest knot of rope, and yanks Cas back the rest of the way onto his dick, buries himself all the way in to the hilt, skin slapping, breath hitching. Cas makes a sound in the back of his throat, thighs trembling and that’s _ it. _

Nerve endings alight with how amazing it feels, brain on the powertrip that fucking the scariest bastard Dean has ever met is giving him, Dean begins screwing his husband in earnest, heat curling in his gut, hips driving deep and hard.

With a fist twisted in the rope granting him the leverage to fuck Cas like he really wants to, Dean can’t help the low-rent porno dialogue that spills from his lips, “Feel every inch of me, Cas? God, you feel good, so fucking amazing for me. Can’t believe you’re letting me fuck you like this. Just taking it like I always knew you could.”

He tries to breathe through his diatribe, tries to scrape enough brain cells together to get control of himself. On his next thrust, the head of his dick drags across Cas’ prostate and the stifled sound Cas makes in response goes straight to Dean’s dick, makes him do it again and again until Cas’ cock is drooling over the rope and onto the sheets below, and it’s hot, so  _ fucking hot. _

Hips angled, Cas tries to control the pace, tries to get Dean where he wants him, but Dean’s not having any of it. He slows down, thrusting shallowly, enough stimulation for him, but nowhere close for Cas. A trick he learned from the bastard himself.

Cas’ arms must be aching like this, jaw too, but he’s still not giving it up. Not until Dean leans forward, draping himself over Cas’ back, mouthing at the base of Cas’ neck, teeth grazing over the flesh there. He wraps a hand around Cas’ dick, growls, “You’re gonna come for me, Cas. I’ll be nice and not make you come just on my cock  _ this time _ \--”

Cas shudders, fucking his precome-slick cock through the tight grip of Dean’s fist, an agonized groan barely muffled behind the panties. 

And Dean needs to hear him, so he rips the panties out of Cas’ pink mouth, drives his hips deep and glides his hand over Cas’ dick in earnest.

The jagged little hitches of Cas’ breath are music to Dean’s ears, hunched forward over the strong, lean body beneath him. Orgasm tingling tight and hot in his balls, Dean’s rhythm falters as Cas’ body tenses, every muscle pulled tight, his cock getting impossibly harder in Dean’s grip before he comes, spilling onto the sheets with a drawn out moan of Dean’s name, all vowels and jagged sounds.

Dean comes with fire in his veins and Cas’ name on his lips, fucking through the constricting heat, toes curling, and brain turned to mush. He screws his way through both of their orgasms and out the other side, fucking Cas sloppy and full until they’re both shivery, moaning messes. 

  
  


***

  
  


“Is this what it’s going to be like from now on?” Cas asks as Dean unwinds the rope from his wrists, Dean’s soft dick twitching in an impressive bid to get hard again when he catches sight of the light friction burns where Cas was straining against the rope. 

“Goddamn, I certainly hope so,” Dean tells him on a rushed exhale as he tosses the rope to the floor, collapses next to Cas on the bed. 

They lie there in the afterglow for a while, both of them on their backs staring up at the ceiling. 

“Well,” Dean eventually says into the comfortable silence, “We’ve discovered a couple of things today. The first is that halloumi skewers are truly fucking awful and the second is that you’re a slut for a tongue in your ass. Can’t believe we never did that before.”

Arm thrown over his face, Cas mutters, “It’s because it requires you to be quiet for longer than thirty seconds.”

“So do blow jobs, but you don’t see me following that rule either.”

Cas removes his arm and turns his head on the pillow to look at Dean. His dark eyes focus on Dean’s mouth. “Hmm. I’m thinking we should give it a go. I bet I can make you shut up.”

Dean grins crookedly, “A bet you say? You’re on.”


	8. Chapter 8

If there’s one thing Dean’s learned in his time with Cas, it’s to expect the unexpected. 

Using a garter as a cock ring would never have occurred to Dean, but last night? At some point during the third go-round, Cas got that evil gleam in his eye and Dean ended up with lace hugging his dick and balls. 

(Dean’ll never be able to look at lace again and not get hard - which could make sheer curtain shopping tricky at best and land him on some kind of register at worst).

As a result of their various sex-based shenanigans, the pair of them are pretty fucked out this morning and Dean is more than pleased to see that Cas is walking a bit more gingerly than usual. 

It’s a point of pride, yanno?

(Not that Dean’s in much better shape himself, but the bow legs hide a multitude of sex-based sins, and there was a _lot_ of sinning last night and into the early hours of this morning).

Thankfully, there's time for sleep and recuperation in the town car on the way to the airport. Dean still has no idea where they're going and is beginning to think that Cas isn't going to tell him at all, he's just gonna have to infer it from the departures board. 

_And even then it could be a layover or some shit._

He's not the best flier, so he's going to pop a couple valium once they’re at the airport, but for now, he settles back into the car’s leather seats and closes his eyes. Next to him, Cas is making impatient little noises as he plays _Scrabble_ on his phone against Claire. 

Dean’s just slipping into that blissful kind of daydream state, right before sleep kicks in when he feels the car suddenly pull over.

Now. Dean’s not a mistrustful person, but Cas and his motives are generally suspicious as fuck - by his own admission, he’s always playing some kind of game - so Dean skips the part where he wonders what the hell is going on and lands right next to believing that wherever they’ve stopped is where they’re honeymooning.

_Better fucking not be._

Dean told Cas that he wasn’t bothered about where they spent the couple of weeks they were taking to essentially fuck on every surface of a swanky hotel - a wall is a wall whether it’s in the Maldives or Switzerland - but he had been hopeful that they would at least _leave town_. 

Dean opens his eyes, resigned to whatever fuckery is about to happen and as usual, Cas is watching him with a calculated smirk on his face, knowing Dean’s precise thought process. “Come on,” he says, all calm and completely unconcerned that Dean might actually divorce him if they’re staying at some grotty motel right here in Lawrence. 

The only observation Dean can take solace in is that when Cas climbs out of the car - ‘cause of course, Dean’s watching _verrrrry_ closely - he isn’t quite as fluidly graceful as usual. Like halfway out he’s reminded that he had a dick in his ass last night and is experiencing the ache that comes with it. 

_Ha._

Feeling victorious, Dean joins him on the sidewalk, outside a building that he instantly recognizes, and his feeling of triumph gives way to confusion. 

“Cas?” He says as they stare up at the structure.

It’s the castle on Massachusetts Street. The one Dean had very briefly hoped would be the venue for their wedding before it was bought by developers. There’s still building work ongoing to the graystone exterior, but Cas just saunters up the path towards the entrance like he owns the place.

Dean hurries after him, catching up and they walk side by side up the stone steps. 

“It was built at the end of the nineteenth century by a man with Scottish descent,” Cas informs him, “He wanted to mimic the medieval style without making it overly ostentatious.” He pushes open the wooden door, gestures for Dean to go inside first. 

Dean’s seen a lot of horror movies. The chances of somebody waiting for him with a machete are alarmingly high, but Cas seems his usual aloof self, so Dean steps inside, hoping that this isn’t some elaborate plan to claim on his life insurance. 

(That he doesn’t have - whoops). 

The interior is really charming; less traditional cold castle and more cozy cottage with its expensive hardwood floors and tasteful decor. 

“It’s nice, Cas,” Dean tells his husband, at a loss for what to say, unsure what reaction Cas is hoping for. “But I know all about it. I wanted to get married here, remember?”

“Oh, yes,” Cas says offhand, but there’s a roguish glint in his eye and Dean’s immediately suspicious again, especially when he asks, “Do you want to have a look around?”

_What the…_

“Shouldn’t we be getting to the airport?”

“We’ve got time,” Cas leads him into another room, as nice as the first, and as beautiful as yesterday had been, Dean finds himself feeling a little wistful. It would have been a gorgeous ceremony here too. 

He wanders over to the huge inset walnut vanity near the corner of the room. It’s gotta be worth a couple thousand bucks _at least_. He absent-mindedly runs his fingers over the smooth surface. It would be perfect in one of the guest bedrooms; maybe if he and Cas put in a decent offer, the developers would let them take this out somehow? It seems a waste if it’s not gonna be used.

From behind him, there are measured footsteps on the hardwood and then Cas is a presence at his back, solid and warm and reassuring. As always, he smells good and Dean finds himself relaxing against his husband, loosely wondering if Cas has brought him here for a quickie, that Dean would of course be up (heh) for.

Which is obviously right when the puritanical murderer that has to be lurking nearby would normally hack the charisma-vacuum-but-disgustingly-attractive-teens to death.

Cas and Dean only fit one of those three criteria - hopefully, Jason would pass them by. 

_And if not - totally freakin’ worth it._

But no, fate has something else in store for Dean today instead of murderous fuckheads, which becomes obvious when Cas dangles something over Dean’s shoulder, resting the jangle of metal over his heart.

It’s a set of keys.

“Cas, what--”

“We own it.”

_The vanity?_

“‘We own it’?” Dean repeats stupidly, too dumbfounded to even think about being an ass, “Since when?”

“Since last year when I saw it up for sale.”

_Holy shit. The fucking castle._

Dean’s still staring at the keys like he’s trying to figure out how they work, so Cas explains, “We have Roman’s connections, and you wanted it. I’ve had a good team working hard on getting it ready. By the time we get back from our honeymoon, the renovation will be complete.”

Dean’s mind reels, “You bought this place? For me?”

Cas hums, “Yes. Though I’m not sure what you’re going to do with it. It was a tearoom up until recently, but that might be a little quaint for you.”

_Bet they cut their sandwiches into triangles here too._

“Cas, I don’t know what to say.”

“I think ‘thank you’ is customary.”

That as may well be, but it doesn’t really cover the gratitude Dean feels. 

Still, he can be polite when the situation warrants. He turns to face his husband, capturing Cas’ lips with his own in an unusually soft kiss. “Thank you, Cas. I love it.”

Cas chases Dean’s mouth when he (reluctantly) pulls away and they just stand there for a while, pressed together, trading lazy kisses back and forth, heat and intensity building until Cas breaks it off this time, breathing ever-so-slightly ragged.

Scraping himself together, Dean asks, “Is this-- er, is this what you and Gabriel were up to all those long days and nights?”

With a slanted smile, Cas says, “Yes. This is a protected building, so renovations have had to be negotiated with painstaking care. I needed help with navigating the bureaucratic nightmare.”

Uh-huh.

“You mean, you needed Gabriel to grease the right palms?”

“That too.”

So. Dean has a freakin’ castle.

“Coming out of the gate pretty strong there, Cas. You know I’m gonna expect castles every year on our anniversary now.”

“Hmm,” Cas says, palm on Dean’s jaw, stroking the pad of his thumb over Dean’s bottom lip, “Why do you think we got married on the leap year? I have another four years to come up with something to beat this.”

_Dick._

“You’re hilarious. Hey, does this mean that I’ll finally get my freakin’ hotel in Vegas too?”

  
  


***

  
  


Back in the car, Dean keeps sneaking glances across at his husband. He’ll never get over that Cas bought a fucking _castle_ for him.

As far as marriages go, this one is already off to a pretty excellent start. 

_Goddamn. A castle._

There’s no way that they’re not having thrones installed. It just has to happen now.

He’s just about to offer Cas a thank you blow job - it won’t come close to expressing Dean’s gratitude, but it’s as good a place to start as any - when his cell vibrates in his jeans pocket.

Cas shoots him a quizzical look when Dean pulls his phone out of pocket, checking to see who’s calling him. Everyone who they give a fuck about knows they’re about to be out of the state.

_Hopefully._

It’s Sam.

Huh. Maybe they’ve forgotten something at the house?

With a frown, Dean answers, “Sammy?” 

The line crackles and Sam’s voice sounds far away when he responds, “Dean. Benny’s here.”

_Oh for fuck’s sake._

“Sam, I told you last time, just tell him to get fucked.”

“He says he’s got information on Nick.”

Nick? The prick who's supposed to be dead? 

For a long moment, Dean can't say anything. Cas is scrutinizing him, trying to figure what the hell is going on, but for once he appears to be having trouble reading Dean.

Sam isn’t saying anything either and it’s eerily quiet. 

"Sammy?"

There's nothing but static.

_Shit._

"Sam?" 

Cas’ expression morphs from curiosity to concern and there’s a chance that he’s about to rip the phone out of Dean’s hand, just to find out for himself.

Dean grips the casing so hard that it cracks, just in case Cas makes an attempt.

“Sam, answer me, dammit!”

There’s muffled movements and then a sickeningly familiar voice says, "Why hello, Dean. I hear congratulations are in order.”

_Nick._

(So apparently fate _doesn’t_ have anything else in store for Dean today instead of murdering fuckheads).

“Right back at ya,” Dean manages, dry throat clicking, “What with your miraculous resurrection and all,” Across the line, he can just about hear Sam making a sharp cry of pain and that’s enough fucking around. Dean shifts forward on his seat, informs Nick in a low voice, “You listen to me, you son of a bitch. If you hurt him, I’ll kill you.”

“Well, I’m already supposed to be dead, so I have nothing left to lose, now do I? Thanks to you and that _husband_ of yours.”

Fuckfuckfuck.

Drawing the phone away from his mouth, Dean covers the mic with his palm. To Cas he says, “We need to go back, Nick’s at the house.”

Thankfully, Cas doesn’t argue or ask questions, he simply leans forward to tell the driver whilst Dean uncovers his cell, “What do you want? What will it take for you to fuck off?”

Nick hums, pretending to consider, “Well, I believe I already told you that months ago. Now the price has gone up.”

Dean waits for Nick to just _fucking tell him_ , knee bouncing. 

“Everything. I want it all. And I’m taking it. I do hope you’re not overly fond of your housekeeper.”

_Mrs. C._

“If you hurt her--”

“--You’ll kill me? Come on, show some originality, Dean. We’ve already established that neither you, nor your husband, not even the Commission can kill me, so let’s get real here. Everything you have is now mine or I kill everyone in the next twenty minutes. And there definitely won’t be a miracle revival in their futures.”

_God-fucking-dammit._

Palm over the phone, Dean asks Cas, “How far away are we?”

“Ten minutes give or take,” Cas answers, murder in his eyes, his own cell pressed to his ear, no doubt calling Gabriel to get everyone else safe. 

Thank Christ the kids are with their moms, though Dean’s hoping Cas will send Balthazar round to check on them anyways, just in case. 

It’s pretty convenient that Nick knew for a fact that they were gonna be away from the house today. If they hadn’t stopped at the castle, they’d be at the airport now, probably over forty minutes away.

_Nick was counting on it._

Dean plays along, removing his hand just enough so that Nick can hear “Forty minutes?” He says to Cas, knowing that Nick is listening at the other end of the phone, “There’s no way we can make it back in time.”

He brings the phone back up to his mouth says, “Nick, we--”

But he gets cut off, “--Oh, what a shame that you’re so far away,” And Dean can hear the self-satisfied grin in his voice. “So then it’s no choice at all, really. I’ll give you the full twenty minutes to decide what’s more important to you, your brother and your housekeeper, or your husband’s criminal empire. Call it my wedding gift to you. I’ll phone you back when it’s decision time. Let’s hope you make the right one this time.”

And with that, he hangs up. 

_FUUUUUUCK._

Dean’s gonna rip his fucking spine out, Sub-Zero style.

  
  


***

As they slink up to the gates of their own goddamn house - the only weapon they have between them is a crowbar from the trunk of the town car parked down the street - Cas mutters, “I told you that changing our song was bad luck.” 

Standing behind him, Dean mimics Cas silently, pulling a stupid face as he does so. 

It’s probably not his most mature moment. 

(In his defense, it’s been a reallllllllly crazy twenty-four hours).

Cas whips his head around like he can sense Dean’s making fun of him and Dean schools his features into something more somber, “You’re right, you did Cas. This is all happening because our first dance was to _Acquiesce_ instead of _Glory of Love_. Nothing at all to do with the fact that Nick’s a fucking psychopath.”

Adding insult to injury, Dean _still_ doesn’t know where they’re supposed to be going on their honeymoon. Though of course, they’ll have to get a later flight now, possibly tomorrow if this turns into a dragged-out affair, and Nick is just such a _pain in the fucking ass._

From their position, hidden out of sight of the cameras, Dean can’t quite see Sam’s little security station just inside the gates. There’s no noise coming from that direction, so Dean can only assume that everyone’s up at the house. 

_Fucking Benny._

It mildly occurs to Dean that his visit to the house a few weeks ago may have been a little more insidious than at first pathetic glance. Dean didn’t catch the second half of the conversation between Benny and Sam, but he would bet his newly acquired castle that their wedding and honeymoon dates were mentioned.

And then passed onto Nick, of course.

_Benny is gonna die slowly and painfully._

Though, reluctantly, Dean has to admit that he’s kinda impressed by Benny’s moxie; the deviousness is pretty up there, even for a serial cheater and fraudster. 

_God_ . All the signs were there, weren’t they. Dean shoulda just let Cas shoot him in the fucking head way back when. Literally _none_ of this would have happened.

Dean sighs. Yet something else Cas was right about. For fuck’s sake. 

“Can you climb that?” Cas asks, gesturing upwards at the stone wall to their backs. It’s at least eight - perhaps nine - feet tall. 

“Yeah, maybe ten years ago, Cas. Nowadays I get dizzy if I get up off the couch too fast.”

Cas does that thing where he looks heavenward for help. Dean doesn’t know why he still bothers; it’s pretty apparent that any god that may or may not exist certainly ain’t on their side.

God-given strength or not, Dean noticeably doesn’t see Cas attempting the climb over the wall either. He keeps that shit to himself though, ‘cause he’s not looking to get a crowbar to the knee.

“How long have we got?” Cas asks, gesturing for Dean to follow him in a burglar-type sneak around their own fucking property.

Dean glances at the timer on his cell, “Thanks to the driver’s super speedy drive here, we now have just over seven minutes.”

It’s a scarily insignificant amount of time.

Cas swears under his breath and picks up his pace. He leads Dean into a thick grouping of trees that mingle with the ones on the other side of the wall. “There’s a way in somewhere around here, I’m sure of it. Should bring us out near the little stream on the east side.”

Well, that’s news to Dean. Though he’s not gonna bitch about it (right now at least) ‘cause if it gets them in the next six minutes and forty-four seconds then it could be a literal lifesaver. 

“Ah,” Cas murmurs, kicking at a couple of loose stones near the bottom of the wall. Crouching down he removes enough for them to crawl through the gap on their stomachs. 

This is _so_ not how Dean imagined the beginning of his honeymoon going.

Cas goes first with the crowbar and Dean follows straight after, shirt riding up, exposing his stomach, resulting in him getting scratchy twigs snagged on the loose waistband of his jeans (he thought he was flying, he wanted to be comfortable - this is anything _but_ comfortable).

“How’d you know that was there?” Dean asks, clambering to his feet and brushing soil and dead leaves from the front of his shirt and picking bits of fucking tree out of his pants. 

“I had Jack check for any kinds of gaps in our security not long after we moved in,” Cas explains as they skirt around the edge, making their way toward the house. “That gap was supposed to get fixed when we were away.”

Oh.

“Any reason you didn’t tell me?”

“I didn’t think it was important.”

Huh.

“Anything else you didn’t think to tell me - anything you didn’t think important, Cas? Maybe something related to the fact that you’re taking Nick not being dead exceptionally well.”

“I had a feeling,” Cas tells him on a sigh, “There was something odd about you getting the phone call and not me.”

_Well, yeah._

“You ‘had a feeling’?” Dean repeats, “And once again, you failed to loop me in?”

Castle or no fucking castle, Cas is gonna get a tongue lashing for this one, and not the kind he was enjoying last night either. 

“Would you have preferred to have the worry of it hanging over our wedding day?”

“No, but I would have shared the burden with you, Cas. We could’ve figured something out. That’s what partners do, you asshole.”

Cas stops and it’s only due to Dean’s cat-like reflexes that he doesn’t bowl his husband over through sheer momentum. He points past one of the fountains, “There. See?”

Dean follows Cas’ line of sight, and his stomach turns over. Through the floor-to-ceiling ground floor windows of the conference room, Dean can see his brother bound to a chair, bloody-nosed, chin to his chest. Further into the room is the recognizable figure of Nick. He’s pacing back and forth, phone held to his mouth. He actually looks nervous, which he _fucking should be_.

Dean follows Cas to the left, and on the approach, he catches sight of Mrs. C. She’s giving lip to Benny - and oh ho ho ho, that fucker is long overdue on his ticket straight downstairs - and Dean is weirdly fucking proud of her. 

“Bet you’re regretting not letting me kill him right about now,” Cas murmurs in Dean’s ear, not-so-quietly smug and yeah, he’s not wrong, but to bring it up now feels like a low blow.

“Once a-fucking-gain Cas, you are right. Maybe that should be my next tattoo - _Cas is always right_?” He jerks his head toward the conference room, “But for now, can we please focus on getting our housekeeper and my brother - your newly minted brother-in-law might I add - out of this mess?”

Together they crouch behind a huge shrub. On his haunches, Cas asks, “What do you suggest?”

“I dunno. We’ve got--” Dean checks the timer, “--three minutes forty-two seconds. Nick has got a gun even if Benny doesn’t. We’ve got a crowbar. It’s hardly a fair fight.”

Cas considers this, “One of our gun cabinets isn’t far from here.”

“It isn’t?” Dean forever admires Cas’ sense of direction with this place. He still routinely finds himself losing his bearings. Which is of course, a great source of amusement for Ben and Claire (and even Cas on occasion).

He and the kids once played hide and seek, except they told Dean where they were, Dean just had to find them.

It took him over half an hour.

_Yeahhh._

It’s one of the reasons that Dean insisted on walkie-talkies. 

(Another is because they’re cool AF, obviously).

If Cas is right though (and as established, he always is), then it could be worth the risk to the remaining time. They each have a small gun safe in their offices, but the main one is in the atrium, near the huge-ass waterfall on the way to the kitchen.

Even if Dean could figure out the way, he’d run out of time before he could get back. 

_Cas could go._

Yeah, and Dean can stall. It’s not ideal, but literally nothing about this situation is.

“You go, Cas. I’ll stall ‘em.”

“Absolutely not.” Cas shuts Dean down instantly, no room for argument. “If you think I’m letting him near you after last time, then you’re certifiable.”

Definitely. 

“I’m gonna have to get near to him to kill him, Cas,” Dean contends with a sunshine grin. “This will buy us the time we need. He’s gonna call me in -- two minutes and fifty-seven seconds. I’ll hold him off while you get the guns. Then you come back with the weapons all Arnie-like and incapacitate them so I can shoot the both of them in the dicks.”

Cas still appears skeptical, so Dean brings out the (metaphorical) big guns, “Come on, it’s my lifelong dream, you wouldn’t deprive your husband of that, now would you?”

After a couple of long seconds of Dean pouting and Cas pretending like it doesn’t affect him in any way, he shoves the crowbar into Dean’s hands, “Fine. But you’d better stay alive long enough for me to tell you that I told you so.”

Dean fists his free hand in Cas’ hair, drags him in for a sloppy, passionate kiss. “I live for you being a smug fucker, Cas. I’ll see you in a few.”

  
  


***

Sneaking around the edge of a building with a literal clock ticking down is nowhere near as fucking cool as James Bond makes it look. It’s heart-stoppingly terrifying in fact, and if there wasn’t so much on the line, then Dean would be at least questioning his life choices, but as it stands, he’d be pretty put out if his brother and housekeeper died, so he doesn’t have the luxury. 

Thirty seconds.

_Cas, you’d better save my ass. Again._

Nick is talking to Benny, words that are barely audible behind the panes of glass. The glare of sunlight makes it difficult to see exactly what’s going on, but when Dean moves closer, Sammy must catch sight of him, because his eyes widen. Dean puts a finger to his lips in a ‘shush’ gesture, which is thoroughly pointless, ‘cause Sam has duct tape across his mouth, but still. 

Dean’s not exactly firing on all cylinders here. 

He points at Nick, makes what he hopes is a ‘distract him’ gesture and Sam jerks his head ever-so-slightly in acknowledgment. 

He starts rocking his chair from side to side and Nick turns; his attention sufficiently diverted away from Benny - and the door he’s standing near. Crouched low, Dean moves as quickly as his ancient, creaky knees will let him. He straightens up as soon as he reaches the door and tries the handle. 

Benny’s on the other side of the glass, his face the perfect picture of shock, disbelief and then fear. And Dean totally gets it, ‘cause he smiles at him as the door swings open, all teeth and no humor and Benny is gonna wish he was never born. 

He only has time to get in a “What the--” before Dean swings the crowbar.

Now. Crowbars have a lot of uses and as a hunk of steel, it’s pretty easy to imagine that they’d make an effective weapon.

They do not. 

They’re heavy and unwieldy, and the weight is not distributed for efficient striking. Not like, say, a baseball bat or a hammer. It’s difficult to get any speed and force behind the swing; something that becomes painfully obvious when the bent claw end makes contact with Benny’s shoulder at least half as hard as Dean was aiming for.

It’s still enough to send his ex stumbling backward, but not enough to maim or do serious damage.

Well, fuck.

Dean tries again - because insanity is doing the same thing over and over again until your fuckwit ex-husband is dead - bringing the crowbar down on Benny over and over again until he’s on the floor, and Dean’s just going to town on any body part he can. The red mist has truly descended and he has never wanted to kill someone more than he wants to kill Benny. 

Not even Nick. Which yeah, oh _shit._

Strong arms wrap around him from behind, and for a split second Dean’s relieved - _Cas_ \- but the smell and feel is all wrong and Dean struggles, tries to headbutt, but Nick is wise to him now and manages to keep him in the bear hug without letting his face get close enough for Dean to break his nose.

“Hello, Dean. How nice of you to drop in on us.”

  
  
  


***

  
  


“I’ve missed you, you know,” Nick tells him, gun pointed at Sam’s head as Benny pats Dean down for more weapons, “You’re still rather impressive.”

Ugh.

He’d bury the crowbar in Nick’s eye just on principle if it weren’t for the fact that Nick has the crowbar and Dean’s cooperating right now. Mostly because of the threat of violence against people he loves, but also because he’s always made excellent bait for anyone who thinks they’re smart enough to try and outwit him and Cas. It didn’t turn out so well for Crowley, it didn't exactly turn out great for Nick the first time, but this time? Dean would say that Nick is 100% gonna live to regret this, but he won’t be living.

So yeah, Dean’s stalling, hoping once again that Cas is gonna turn up and do that deadeye thing he does with pretty much any gun put in his hands.

“What the fuck are you smiling about?” Nick snaps, shoving the muzzle of the gun up against Sam’s temple so hard that it forces his head to the side. 

Smiling serenely, Dean replies, “Just how I’m gonna kill you nice and slow. Or maybe my husband will. Who knows? It’ll be exciting for us all to find out, won’t it?”

Face twisted in a snarl, Nick cracks Sam across the cheekbone with the gun and Dean winces, jaw clenched, but he doesn’t say anything. 

Done with his slightly-too-thorough search of Dean - seriously, some of the places his hands went, Dean was half expecting his ex to demand he turn his head and cough - Benny pushes to his feet, blue eyes searching Dean’s for something.

Dean’s happy to give it to him. 

He spits in Benny’s face. It’s a good aim too, ‘cause it gets him right below the eye and drips down his cheek. 

“Fuck you,” Dean tells him. He’s possibly never meant anything more. Except for his wedding speech to Cas, maybe. 

He’s practically daring Benny to hurt him, has been for months now, so Dean’s not expecting it when Benny actually does; his fist catching Dean across the jaw, sending his head snapping to the side, copper on his tongue.

_Nice._

“Shit,” Benny mutters, a split second after it’s happened, “Dean--”

Dean grins at him through bloodied teeth. “I’m gonna be the one who kills you, I promise you that. And out of the two of us, I’m not the one who breaks my vows.”

Benny pales at the vehemence in Dean’s face and turns to Nick. “I don’t wanna be here for this.”

_Coward,_ **_fucking coward_ ** _._

Nick is blatantly unamused too, “I paid you for the whole day.”

“Yeah, but he’s never been that good at seeing things through.” Dean spits out a mouthful of blood onto the hardwood floor, then immediately feels guilty when he notices Mrs. C’s unimpressed glare. 

She seems to be handling the situation well, all things considered. 

_Tough old broad._

He knew there was a reason he liked her. Besides all the other reasons, of course.

“You have everything under control,” Benny says, already inching toward the door, yellow-bellied like his fucking namesake in _The Mummy._

“I’ll see you later, sweetheart,” Dean tells him with an over-the-top flirty wink. “Wait up for me.”

With a darting glance between Dean, Nick, and Sam, Benny stumbles backward outside and rushes off through the bushes.

Dean’s never seen the appeal of hunting animals for sport. It’s cruelty for cruelty’s sake as far as he’s concerned, but watching Benny’s departing back through the trees, he definitely feels some primal instinct stirring hot in his blood. 

“You get what you pay for, I suppose,” Nick laments, watching Benny alongside Dean.

“Yeah.” Dean agrees, “So,” He turns his attention to the remaining fuckbag in his house, “Looks like you’re all alone until my husband turns up.”

“Indeed,” Nick says, “But I could shoot the three of you before he gets here.”

“You could,” Dean concedes, “But that’s no fun, is it?”

Nick laughs coldly, “The only reason you’re still alive right now is because I want Castiel to watch you die.”

“Ooh, vicious.” Dean tsks, “I kinda like it though.” He doesn’t ask about Mrs. C or Sammy; he wants to keep Nick’s focus on him. “So, whilst we wait, whaddya wanna do? Catch up? Reminisce about that time you tried to rape me?”

Sam flinches, eyes going wide and nostrils flaring. Dean pays him no mind. 

Nick’s stare is so intense that it feels like it’s perforating Dean’s soul, “So you want to play that game, do you - Who’s had it worse? Do you know what it’s like to have to hide yourself away for _months_? Not being able to come up for air just in case?”

_He seems kinda angry about something._

Oh, this is gonna be a great story, Dean can tell.

“No,” Dean admits, “But you’re gonna tell me, right?”

But Nick’s already gone, lost to his desire to monologue like every villain ever. Dean gets it; when you think you’ve won, the need to gloat is pretty much unavoidable. 

Also, Dean’s darn curious about how the fuck he fooled them and kept off their radar.

Luckily for him, Nick is more than happy to spill the beans.

“I’ve spent the last couple of months living in rat-infested motels, homeless shelters, sleeping on the streets to avoid the Commission’s reach and yours --”

Well, at least they weren’t lying about not knowing where he was.

“And yet, you smell fresh as a daisy,” Dean quips, “Not at all like the fucking garbage that you are.”

Nick ignores him, “-- With what little money I had access to, I paid someone to call you pretending to be the Commission’s hitman. You know less about the processes and procedures. It was easier to get one over on you than Castiel. And it worked like a charm--”

_God, Cas is right again. For fuck’s sake._

“-- Did you see the photos? Weren’t they great? Corn syrup, corn starch, water and some food coloring. Good, huh?”

_Speaking of though,_ w _here the fuck is Cas?_

Realizing that Dean’s barely paying attention, Nick’s expression darkens, “As soon as your love deigns to put in an appearance, you’re dead, you know that don’t you?”

Dean knows no such thing, but he figures that even if Nick shoots him, at least the last thing he sees will be Cas’ face.

Too sappy? Too sappy.

It’s true though and something must show on his face, ‘cause Nick shakes his head, angry and disbelieving, “You think he loves you--”

“--I _know_ he does.”

“That man has never loved anything in his life.” Nick tells him, “Do you have any idea who he is, what his origin story is?”

“I don’t give a fuck. He could have been a mild-mannered engineer who fell into a vat of acid and came out as the crown king of crime, for all I care. It makes no difference to me.”

Dean doesn’t miss Sam’s eye-roll at his nerdery. 

Hey, he started this thing a nerd, he’s gonna end this thing a nerd. 

“And if he doesn’t love me…” Dean continues, unimpressed that he has to explain this logic to a supposedly functioning adult, “Then why are you waiting for him before you shoot me, huh? If he doesn’t give a shit, then it shouldn’t matter what you do to me.”

A slow smile spreads across Nick’s face, “You’re right. I’m just fucking with you. Benny told me about how insecure you are. I thought I’d give it a shot.”

_Jeez, imagine carrying a torch for your stupidity this hard._

“Yeahuh,” Dean responds, channeling Cas and his signature eyebrow raise, “I thought we’d already discovered that Benny isn’t worth whatever money you paid him…”

_Hurry the fuck up, Cas._

“...What _did_ you pay him by the way?”

“I paid off his gambling dates, let him live in a house I purchased free of charge, gave him a living wage. Nothing too excessive, but enough that he was sufficiently appreciative to spill the beans on you. And keep tabs on you whilst I was unable to, of course. Which he did a rather splendid job of,” he gestures around, “Because here I am. So I suppose I can forgive him for his reluctance to see you die. He does still love you, after all.”

_Jesus Christ, Benny._

“Nah,” Dean dismisses, “Pretty sure Benny’s in love with the idea of me. The _wrong_ idea, obviously,” he pauses, “Where did you say he lived again?”

Nick’s smile is sharp, “I didn’t.”

“You might as well tell me,” Dean cajoles, “Being as I’m going to be dead in a few minutes anyway.”

Sam makes a disgruntled noise behind his duct tape and Dean doesn’t even look at him. Damn fool ruining all the good work that Dean’s being doing here.

Nick hesitates, like he’s protecting someone actually worth protecting before he apparently remembers that Benny’s a waste of a Cajun accent, “He’s in a house in one of those gated communities, not that far from here actually.”

Dean can’t hide the horrified expression on his face and Nick laughs, “It’s not your old house, don’t worry--” Dean’s not worried, he met the couple that bought his old place before it sold; they were a respectable family, not a fucking nutjob with an obsession, “--That was sold just before I met him, unfortunately, but there are a couple of similar communities around.”

That is pretty twisted. Even for Benny.

So what? He’s sitting there in a three or four-bedroom home, playing happy fucking families by himself like a psychopath?

Whether he is or isn’t, he ain’t gonna be there for much longer.

_Where the fucking fuck is Cas?_

As if Dean’s annoyance has summoned him, Cas appears in Dean’s periphery, at the other side of the room. Dean doesn’t look directly at him, because straightaway, he notices that Nick’s view of his husband is obstructed by a standalone pane of frosted glass, just in front of the only doorway to the rest of the house. 

It’s pretty crafty, ‘cause admittedly, Dean was expecting Cas to come in through the same way he did. Judging by Nick’s obvious confidence in his inevitable victory, he was thinking along the same lines as Dean.

_Good._

Cas is nearest to Mrs. C and he would definitely prefer to get her out of here before the shooting begins, so he steps toward Nick with the intent of distraction.

Instantly, Nick points his gun in Dean’s direction apprehension in his eyes.

_Aha._

“So Benny was keeping tabs on us,” Dean muses with his hands up, moving suuuuper slowly, making sure Nick’s attention is wholly on him, “I’m guessing he’s the one who got you in here too, huh? Figured that Sam would at least talk to him like last time when you sent him up here on that fact-finding mission before my wedding?”

Nick is obviously pleased with himself. “You really should talk to your security about what information he shares with the enemy.”

“Oh don’t worry, I will.” 

From behind him, he hears a harshly whispered, _“Go!”_ and then Nick’s eyes snap to Cas’ corner of the room. Dean doesn’t look, he’s too busy ducking right before Nick remembers himself and squeezes the trigger. 

The sound is loud in the room and a glass pane shatters somewhere, but the bullet misses him - which is kinda the important thing here - and Dean rushes blindly at Nick. 

Nick shoots again. Or Cas does, Dean’s not sure, but the fear of getting a bullet to the chest or back doesn’t deter him, doesn’t even slow him down, and he’s launching himself at Nick with all the grace of a swan taking flight.

He catches Nick around the waist as his gun goes off, embedding a bullet in the ceiling above. 

They both end up in a tangle of limbs on the floor and Dean yells out to Cas, “Stay the fuck back!” ‘Cause the last thing he wants with Nick’s wild flailing and trigger happy finger is for Cas to end up eating lead. 

Sam is watching Dean and Nick with wide, frightened eyes and Dean just hopes that Nick isn’t thinking clearly enough to shoot him as Dean struggles to get the gun away from the bastard.

Dean draws his fist back, wanting to make sure that the first punch he’s throwing today is a good one. Unfortunately, Nick isn’t as bothered about power as he is speed and in the scant seconds it takes for Dean to load up, Nick pistol whips him in the face hard enough to make him dizzy, allowing Nick to take the advantage, shoving Dean off him and onto his back.

On the floor of the conference room, Dean squeezes his eyes shut, waits for the bullet between the eyes that never comes. He hears a gunshot, but there’s no blood or pain and when he forces his eyes open, Nick is nowhere to be seen. 

Once again, bright blue eyes and dark appear in Dean’s line of sight, blocking out the ceiling. 

Dean grins up at his husband through bloodied teeth.

“Hey, babe. This seems familiar.”

  
  


***

  
  


Nick is the worst kind of cockroach. 

‘Cause cockroaches may well survive multiple attempts on their lives (and even the apocalypse), but at least they have the decency to stay the fuck outta your way and not pop up once in a while to give you shitty villain speeches and try to kill you.

Speaking of the apocalypse - Cas missed the shot. He fucking missed.

Like, nobody's perfect and all, but **_Cas_ ** _missed_?

“I can’t believe you fucking missed, man,” Dean tells his husband. They’re in the kitchen, where Dean has an ice-pack pressed to the bruising forming across his jaw.

“So you’ve said,” Cas mutters, staring at the CCTV monitors in here. They only show a few key locations around the house and grounds, rather than the extensive collection in their offices, but when Nick resurfaces (and he will, see: cockroach analogy and also the fact that Cas has his men all around the perimeter of the grounds so there’s no escape that way), they’ll know about it.

It creeps Dean the fuck out knowing that Nick is somewhere in their personal space, but there’s no way that he’s about to go a-searching, even with the fucking armory they have now. 

“Yeah, but _how_ did _you_ miss?”

“I would say it’s rather self-explanatory; I didn’t hit the target.”

“Funny,” Dean says, tossing the ice pack onto the counter, “Can’t believe I’m gonna have a bruise the size of fucking Texas on my jaw for our honeymoon. _Fucking Benny_.”

At least Sam and Mrs. C are safe. Gabriel escorted them from the premises on foot so that Nick didn’t have the chance to pull a daring under-car escape a la Max Cady. 

Still, where the fuck could he be? It’s been a good half hour since he made his escape into the grounds and for the first time since they bought the place, Dean’s wishing they went for a more modest backyard. 

“There!” Cas jabs his finger at one of the monitors. “He’s just gone past the main fountain.” He grabs himself an AK and shoves his pistol down the back of his jeans. “Let’s finish this once and for all.”

In the movies, this would be a badass line to end a scene and then cut to a shot of the antagonist getting shot in the face by the protagonist, but because Dean’s never been one for the rules, he says, “Sure, Cas, long as you don’t miss this time.”

_Aaaaaand scene._

  
  


***

  
  


**Nick.**

So Dean lied to Cas’ face when they were in Vegas; this shit is entirely fucking personal and he’s gonna make Nick regret everything. Although he would be okay with Nick being dead by any means necessary, he _really_ wants to be the one to do it. Dude has come after Dean with everything he has - co-opting Dean’s ex, his brother, his housekeeper, his fucking _house_ \- so turnabout is fair play. 

Not to mention the shit he pulled back at the warehouse. Seriously, there is not enough Lysol in the world to make Dean feel less _‘ugh’_ again.

AR-15 a comfortable weight in his hands, Dean tells his husband, “I’m gonna go this way, you go round there. Hopefully one of us will catch up with him--” _It’s gonna be Dean, it has to be Dean,_ “--and make him dead.”

Dean doesn’t need to see Cas’ face to see the skepticism written all over it, “No. That’s a terrible idea.”

That as may be, but in theory, so was marrying a gangster, so he takes a sharp right just before the fountain. “Catch you on the flip side, babe.” And he blows his husband a kiss. 

Cas is singularly unimpressed, but they can fuck and make up later. 

Dean stops after a few feet. Listens. There are a few smaller trees that follow the curve of the path to the left. He waits. It’s a mild March 1st, so there’s not much wind - any movement nearby will either be Nick, Cas, or fucking bigfoot. 

A twig snaps just behind one of the bushes up ahead, so Dean moves quickly, finger across the trigger guard.

“Niiiiiick,” He sing-songs, ducking underneath a branch and entering a small copse of trees, “Come out, come out wherever you are. I just wanna talk, man. I’m sure we can sort this mess out, right? A little quid-pro-quo perhaps? You hurt my brother and housekeeper, I take your testicles, that kinda thing.”

He’s surrounded by low-hanging branches on all sides. There are plants at his feet that are just blooming with the first blush of spring. It’s kinda pretty and Dean resolves to spend more time out here once they get back from their honeymoon.

As long as he doesn’t get dead first, of course.

Another twig snaps immediately to his left and Dean catches movement out the corner of his eye. He turns and as he does so, he feels something snag on the muzzle of his semi-automatic rifle. 

It’s Nick and he shoves the barrel upwards and back into Dean’s face, connecting with his nose. Pain blasts through him and he grapples for control over the gun with Nick. Dean has fury on his side though, and he shoves Nick backward with all his might, relinquishing his hold on the gun in the hopes that Nick will stumble and fall. 

He does the former, but not the latter, but that’s okay, ‘cause using the momentum, Dean catches Nick across the cheekbone with his fist and shoves again until Nick is out of the trees and on the main pathway. The backs of his knees hit the low stone wall of the fountain and he topples in, gun and all. 

Dean steps over the wall, up to his knees in water and lilypads. The semi-automatic is already at the bottom of the fountain somewhere and Dean’s in no mood to go digging around. Instead, he yanks at the pretty fairy lights around the fountain, and wades through the water until he’s standing behind a struggling Nick. He loops the string around Nick’s throat twice and pulls it taut. 

Cas appears into view, aiming the AK-47 directly at Nick’s chest, but Dean shakes his head. It’s too fucking easy. 

Dean wants the fucker to _feel_ this. 

Psychotic? Perhaps. Deserved? Abso-fucking-lutely.

Killing someone with fairy lights wasn't on Dean's list of things to do today, but it’s probably one of the least weird things he’s done this year. 

Nick thrashes, water splashing everywhere. His hands scrabble back for Dean, nails leaving red lines up Dean’s forearms and his hands. Dean pulls tighter.

Cas steps back out of range when Nick kicks a huge wave of water at him. He raises an eyebrow at Dean.

_So damn precious for someone who murderizes people on the regular._

“Fuck you, cunt,” Dean tells Nick through gritted teeth, keeping his hold, muscles aching like hell, but he’s determined to see this through. 

Nick’s face is purple and he’s gasping for air that the pressure Dean is putting on his windpipe isn’t allowing into his lungs. There’s no oxygen flowing to his brain and there’s a vicious joy in having Cas watch this; of Nick knowing in his final moments that Dean was the one who killed him and Cas - the guy he had a hate boner for - got to watch. 

Nick goes limp, most likely passed out, but Dean doesn’t stop. 

After a couple of minutes - because Dean’s no expert, but he does know that brain death takes some time - all dark-eyed and dangerous, Cas murmurs, “Want me to shoot him and make sure?”

Muscles burning, Dean releases Nick’s lifeless body, shoves him face down into the fountain. 

Cas definitely doesn’t miss this time as Dean steps back and he sprays Nick’s body with bullets.

“Ew,” Dean mutters as the blood seeps out into the water, “We’re gonna have to have the water changed out.” He wades toward the wall, trying to avoid the quickly spreading crimson.

“Nothing personal, hmm?” Cas asks archly as Dean clambers out of the fountain, his jeans wet and heavy. 

He’s gonna have to throw this pair away. Unless Mrs. C can perform some kind of miracle.

_That’s if she hasn’t run for the hills by now._

Fucking Nick.

“Okay,” Dean concedes with a wry smile, “So it might have been a _little_ personal.”

  
  
  


***

  
  


Sitting on the picnic bench - the only thing rescued from his old place (Dean’s a sentimental fool, he’s coming to terms with it) - in dry and bloodless clothes, Dean couldn’t give less of a fuck about his feet on the seats. Every muscle in his body aches, his jaw and nose are throbbing but he’s feeling strangely invigorated. Motivated, even.

Cas takes a seat next to him, his shoulder bumping against Dean’s in a way that’s so familiar and comforting, Dean can’t help but lean into it, breathing in the scent of his husband.

The night is descending and the lights are twinkling so prettily all around the grounds. This time yesterday he and Cas were about to have their first dance and already it feels like years ago, rather than hours.

They sit in a pleasant, companionable silence. Despite Cas’ insistence that Dean ruins everything by talking (something Dean proved him wrong about last night), he’s actually content to just exist like this for a while.

Well. Until he’s not.

“How long did you sit outside my place that night?”

Cas doesn’t ask which night Dean’s referring to. Instead, he answers, “Not long. Thirty minutes or so. I was thinking about breaking in when you came downstairs.”

Huh.

“You know, there are more efficient ways to woo someone than to hang around in their yards late at night. The least you could have done was hold up a boombox playing Peter Gabriel.” 

_Though, he did get it kinda half right with Peter Cetera and Glory of Love._

They’re gonna have to change their song back now, aren’t they? There’s no way that anytime something bad happens Cas won’t attribute it to _Oasis._

(Unfairly or fairly. ‘Cause the song is decent, but really, they’re just a poor man’s _Beatles._ Dean shoulda known better).

Low-key amusement in his voice, Cas says, “That scene is horrendously creepy.”

“No more creepy than hanging around in a suburban backyard to scare the living shit out of some poor, unsuspecting single dad.”

Castiel shifts to face him, eyebrow arched, “‘Poor and unsuspecting’? Dean, you had just robbed a convenience store.”

“Nobody’s perfect,” Dean tells him with a grin. He leans in, presses his forehead to Cas’. “Not even you, Mr. I-never-miss.” 

Cas exhales on a sigh, warm breath ghosting over Dean’s lips, “I missed on purpose.”

Dean pulls away to look his husband in the eye, “Sure you did, babe. It’s okay y’know. Means you’re human like the rest of us. I tell you what, I’ll teach you how to shoot properly, yeah?”

“How magnanimous of you,” Cas mutters dryly.

“I know, right?” Dean teases, pushing his luck now, but not caring all that much, “Generous to a fucking fault. It’s cool, Cas. With some practice, you can become as good a shot as me.”

Cas says nothing, but Dean can tell that he’s already making a mental laundry list of ways to make Dean regret his nonsense. 

Dean _can’t wait_. 

“So what’s our next move, Cas?” 

Dean knows, he just needs to make sure he and Cas are on the same page. They pretty much always are, but it’s nice to have the verbal confirmation.

“I think Benny’s nine lives are up, don’t you?”

_Fuck yes._

“Yeah. Just need to find out where he lives. Nick said he’s in one of the gated communities. Not my old one, but another.” Even as he’s saying it Dean barely suppresses a shudder. What the fuck was Benny thinking? Trying to relive what he had with Dean, except all alone in an empty house? 

‘Cause that’s not creeper behavior _at all._

_More red flags than a fucking matador._

At this stage, Dean putting a bullet between his eyes is gonna be a mercy killing.

“There are only two others within a fifty-mile radius,” Cas tells him, busy googling away on his cell. 

Hmm. “What are the names?” Maybe Dean can figure out which one Benny is more likely to have gone for, save some time.

“Paradise Pointe, with an ‘e’ at the end of point--”

Cas’ disappointment in the extraneous ‘e’ is palpable. Dean’s actually with him on this one. It’s pretentious as fuck and one of the many many _many_ reasons that he doesn’t miss living in one of these communities.

“-- and Greenwood.”

Now. If you were a loser holding onto the past, wouldn’t you go for the one that had the same color as your ex’s eyes in the title? ‘Cause Dean’s no expert on how the creeper operates, but he thinks that’s standard protocol.

“Cool.” Dean slides off the table, tries not to wince. He’s not sure when he took a punch to the kidney, but hopefully he won’t be pissing blood this time.

That would really put a downer on their honeymoon.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“Nah,” Dean waves his husband and his concern off, “You rebook the flights, check in with Sam and Mrs. C. I’ll go sort Benny out.”

‘Cause at this point? It’s more than a little fucking personal. 

In fact, it’s _Jaws 4: The Revenge, I will follow you across the fucking world to eat you,_ personal. 

‘For better or worse’ Dean and Benny promised each other several years ago. 

Well, the worse is gonna fucking hurt.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we are. I just wanna say thank you to every single one of you who has read and commented on, given kudos to, or bookmarked the stories in this series. I’ve had an absolute blast writing it and these two are probably my favorite iterations of Dean and Cas that I’ve written. I do have plans for several one-shots in the future, so it’s not the last you’ll be seeing of them, but it is the final long fic (though my feelings on that may change, who knows). I hope it’s close to the ending of this arc that many of you hoped for. 
> 
> Just in case you’re thinking - ‘ohemgee, what the hell do I do with my Sunday evenings now?’ don’t worry, ‘cause I got you covered, friends. From next Sunday, I’ll be posting chapters of a dark fic (I’m long overdue - I think the last dark fic I wrote was Stone by Stone and before that Red Right Hand), so if dark, stalkery horror sounds like your jam, then stay tuned :).
> 
> Final note: this chapter is pretty much 10300 words of torture, with a side helping of snark and cheese. Nothing too graphic, but all the same: Good luck.

Dean honestly never got the whole ‘road to hell being paved with good intentions’ thing. Surely, what matters to Satan and his pitchfork-toting minions is the intent? After all, without mens rea, murder is just manslaughter (which sounds infinitely more badass, but that's neither here nor there). 

Dean, Sam, and Charlie went into this with good intentions. They didn't hurt anybody - had no desire to - and they stole enough only to cover their expenses, which - as far as Dean is concerned - were all reasonable and not frivolous.

But maybe, just maybe, there's something in the yellow-brick-road to the fiery pit idea, 'cause it all started with a fairly innocuous robbery and has escalated to seventh-circle-of-hell-worthy murders. Dean’s intentions have been less innocent when it comes to the people he’s killed, but all of them were dangers. 

This murder though? This one is gonna be for the fuck of it. Nothing but flat out revenge. 

Benny deserves it completely - there’s no question about it - but he’s most likely not a danger by himself now that Nick is dead. This is nothing by violence for violence sake and Dean is practically vibrating with the need to take his ex apart with his bare hands, to maim and fucking  _ destroy _ . 

It’s a far cry from the early days, when Dean didn’t wanna be vindictive, ‘cause now he revels in that shit. 

On his way to Benny’s place, Dean works through just how he’s gonna get in and how he’s gonna find the house he’s looking for. The community could be guarded which adds an extra layer of difficulty. 

In Cas’ Beemer (the Impala's engine is far too distinctive and stealth is kinda important for this) with a shitload of weapons in the trunk, Dean taps his fingers against the steering wheel, deep in thought. 

This is going to be a pain in the ass no matter which way he slices it. He needs to get in with the car, ‘cause there’s no way he’s hiking a duffel full of rope and weapons around. That’s just  _ asking _ to get the cops called by some overzealous curtain twitcher.

And he’s not overly keen on spending the night in the cells.

Sighing, he flicks on his blinker for Greenwood.

Hopefully, Benny hasn’t managed to leave town yet, ‘cause yeah, Dean would track him to the ends of the fucking earth, but he’d like to have his honeymoon first, please. It’d bother him no end that Benny was still alive though, even as he’s sitting on a beach somewhere, sipping mai tais. 

He needs to squash this one remaining bug and then he and Cas can finally get on with their lives. Y’know, that closure shit that Dr. Phil rambles on about.

Dean rounds a corner, drives a little way down the hill, and spots the community gates.

There’s a guard station. Well,  _ fuck. _

Pulling up and rolling down his window, Dean flashes his most charming smile at the security officer. She’s a pretty, brunette, young-ish woman and that makes this just a little bit easier.

“Hi,” He makes himself look as open and as non-threatening as possible, “I’m here to see a friend?”

“Name?” The guard seems incredibly bored, busy playing Candy Crush on her phone. 

_Hope it's not level 350, 'cause those candy bombs are a bitch._

“Mine or my friend's?”

“Both.”

This is the tricky part. If Dean really is as transparent as Cas always harps on about him being, then Dean’s glad she’s not paying attention to him. “Matthew Thompson… is my name and my friend’s is...Shaun Tillman.”

_ Not bad for completely on the spot. _

“There’s no Shaun Tillman living here.”

“There isn’t?” Dean feigns surprise, “That’s what he told me his name was. Oh.”

She finally looks up at him, inevitably drawn into the drama, and almost performs a comedic double-take, her pretty hazel eyes going wide, mouth rounding on nothing. 

Yeah, Dean’s hot, he knows it. Luckily, the bruise on his jaw isn’t as visible in the darkness. 

“Who would tell  _ you  _ a fake name?” She wonders aloud, then blushes, “Sorry, that was totally inappropriate.”

Dean ducks his head, pretending to be all ‘aw shucks’ about her compliment, “I guess it could have always just been a misunderstanding?” He says, voice all faux-hopeful and naive, and not at all conveying his ‘let me in so I can kill the fuck outta my ex’  intent .

“Yeah,” She smiles kindly, “I guess so. Uh, what does this guy of yours look like?”

The literal opposite of Benny. But also, so nondescript that there’s bound to be a couple of people in the community that match the description.

“Uh, he’s about six foot, dark hair, brown eyes. Medium build. Super cute.”

“Oh,” She says, “I know who you’re talking about. But I thought he was straight? And  _ married _ .”

_ Bingo. _

“What?”

“Shit, sorry,” She tells him, sounding genuinely apologetic. “I think you’ve been had.”

Dean refrains from making the obvious lewd joke.

“Dammit,” He mutters instead, staring down at his lap. He gives it a couple of long seconds before he looks up at her with tears shining in his eyes.

This performance is blowing the one he acted for Nick out of the damn water.

“He’s got some things of mine. Personal things,” He sighs to himself, shakes his head, “I guess I’m never getting those back.” He forces a wobbly smile, “Thank you for your help, Miss…?”

She jolts, “Oh, er, Hayes, I’m Kristina Hayes.”

Dean turns the smile up to eleven, “Thank you, Kristina.” He makes as if to shift gears, ready to reverse, but she stops him. 

“Wait! Look, I’ve never liked that Toby guy--” _ poor dude, _ “--and now, not only has he been cheating on his wife, but he’s treated you poorly…” She trails off, “The least I could do is let you collect your stuff.”

_ Everyone lives for the drama. _

“Oh, thank you!” He gushes, his over-the-top gratitude at least partially genuine, “That’s really kind of you Kristina. You’re a star,” He winks at her and she blushes, quietly pleased. She turns to her control system, fiddling with the controls, and seconds later the gate begins opening, gears whirring.

“What number?” Dean asks, just for appearances.

“197.” She tells him with a sympathetic smile.

Fuck. There’s at least that many houses for Dean to trawl through then.

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

  
  


***

  
  
  


**Benny.**

There’s no picnic table outside of Benny’s new place, but there  _ is _ a bench. It’s one of those wooden-slatted-intricate-metalwork ones. The ones you see old people sitting on in the park, feeding the pigeons out of a paper bag. 

Dean takes a seat, spreading his arms out along the back, crossing his legs over at the ankles. It’s not a massive back yard, but perhaps the beauty of it. Simple. Easy. The night air is nice and crisp, carrying the sweet scent of pollen and mowed grass.

He takes a deep breath, just content to  _ exist  _ for a moment. This life is _ a lot  _ at least ninety percent of the time, so on occasion, it’s nice to sit and enjoy the fun moments for what they are.

And this is gonna be a lot of fun. 

At his feet, he has his trusty duffel bag full of weapons and rope, which was a bitch to get over the fence, and now he has a scraped knee to go with his bruised jaw and split lip. 

He’s gonna look like he got into a fight with a gorilla in their honeymoon photos. 

But it’s worth it, ‘cause he’s gonna finish this shit. He’s got a score of four out of five, with the means and motive to now make it five out of five.

The house is agonizingly similar to the one he and Benny shared for several years. Dean’s had an afternoon to come to terms with the creepiness of it now; he’s mostly over it. 

_ How could Benny not think it was super fucking weird though? _

It’s a decent enough place, pretty average, nothing special. It’ll be in Nick’s name, so Benny - the naive idiot - probably thinks that it earns him some protection, or will at least buy him enough time to get away before (and if) Dean shows up.

Un-fucking-fortunate.

Admittedly, once Dean’s good friend Kristina let him through the gates, it did take a good half hour or so to find the house. Benny actually lives pretty near the untrustworthy Toby, which definitely pings off of Dean’s irony meter. 

The lights are on in the kitchen and dining room and from his position in the backyard, Dean can see the silhouette of Benny flitting about from room to room, packing up his shit, ready to go on the run just in case Nick hasn’t won. 

Like that’ll help him.

There’s literally nowhere Dean wouldn’t follow him to. Benny signed his own death warrant years ago, but Dean’s only now just decided to go ahead with the execution.

It mildly occurs to Dean that this is probably the longest, most frustrating lesson Cas has ever tried to teach him. ‘Cause as always, the smug fucker  _ told _ him, didn’t he? Way back when. All growly mean gangster:  _ ‘You’re going to take some responsibility and put a bullet in him, blah blah blah. Inches and miles yadda yadda’ _ . But, he just had to let Dean fuck it all the way up first in a roundabout way of proving himself right from the beginning. 

_ Asshole. _

But a  _ right _ asshole. As fucking always. 

Dean dials Benny’s phone number, years of muscle memory taking the hard work of remembering it out for him. Of course, Dean’s changed his number a couple of times since he and his ex went their separate ways, so when Dean watches Benny pull his ringing cell out of his pocket, his ex frowns.

_ Answer it, fuckface. _

He does, and there’s no hiding the trepidation in that lilt, “Hello?”

Dean doesn’t say anything for a long moment. It’s kinda fun watching Benny getting all brow-creasy and worried.

Benny tries again, “Nick?”

“I’m sorry the caller you’re trying to reach got strangled by fairy lights,” Dean says, enjoying the way Benny’s entire body jerks in surprise. He’s beginning to understand how Cas gets off on all this Michael Myers sneaky bullshit.

“Dean,” Benny breathes and Dean hears the  _ ‘fuckfuckfuck how are you still alive’ _ that his ex doesn’t voice, “cher, I’m s--”

_ Nope. Nuh-uh. _

“--Don’t even bother, Benny.”

“He made me,” Benny blurts, and resumes shoving the clothes piled on the dining table into his holdall, cell phone sandwiched between his ear and shoulder.

“Sure he did,” Dean agrees easily, rising to his feet, “Just like he  _ made _ you tie up Sam and Mrs. C, yeah?”

“Dean--”

Benny’s hands are shaking and it takes a couple of attempts to zip up his duffel. Dean hoists his own over his shoulder, tools jangling. 

It reminds him of the early days when he and Cas used to hand money back and forth that way.

_ Aww, memories. _

“--Benny. Why don’t you let me in and we can have this conversation face to face?”

Benny’s head jerks up. He looks toward the patio doors. Dean waves with a cheery smile.

So perhaps Dean is less Michael Myers and more Freddy. Or Pennywise (the Tim Curry version, obviously). He's definitely all about the campy fear. He’ll likely never be as menacing as Cas, ‘cause the dude puts a lot of time and effort into being an emotionless replicant, so Dean’s cool with being the wisecracking harbinger of death.

Plus, he’s really growing into the ‘underestimated secret badass’ thing. It’s worked out well in his favor so far. 

Dean makes his way across the lawn, wishing he was dragging the  _ Great Knife _ instead of carrying a duffel. Still, even without the fictional weapon, the pure panic on Benny’s face is something Dean’s probably gonna jerk off to later, ‘cause it is  _ beautiful.  _ “Oh, fuck.”

“Yeah, I think that’s an adequate summary. Open the doors. Or don’t, I guess. But either way, I’m coming in.” He hangs up, standing on the flagstones now, a few feet away from the patio doors.

Benny dithers indecisively like he’s not sure which will be worse for him.

Spoiler alert: it’s gonna be pretty fucking bad either way. 

Fortunately for Dean (unfortunately for Benny), he doesn’t realize this, so after a bit of umming and ahhing, Benny takes some tentative steps toward Dean.

He slides the glass door open on the runner, and then there’s nothing between Dean and the man he used to love. 

_ Once upon a time.  _

“Hi honey,” Dean grins, a twist of anticipation snaking through him, “I’m home.”

  
  


***

  
  


The first punch that Dean throws has blood blooming from Benny’s mouth, the second has Benny’s cheekbone making a delicious crunching sound as Dean’s fist connects. The third knocks him out cold.

Dean’s only got a couple of seconds before he comes round, so he drags Benny’s unconscious body through the dining room and around the table in the center. Benny starts groaning as Dean lifts him into a chair - fucker is  _ heavy  _ \- so Dean hurries to grab his duffel, dropped outside on the flagstones when he started his attack. 

By the time he’s reclaimed his stuff and shut and locked the door, Benny is sitting with his elbows on his knees, holding his head in his hands, the very picture of pathetic. Dean makes a show of dumping the bag on the table in front of him. 

Benny jolts and looks up, “What is this?”

“I’m gonna kill you, Benny,” Dean tells him, simple as that, “But first I’m gonna make you hurt.  _ A lot. _ ”

Taking advantage of Benny’s fuzzy state, Dean yanks a few lengths of rope out of the bag, like a really warped magic show and this is the prelude to a dangerous escape trick a la Houdini. 

Except there’s no escape. Not for Benny. Not anymore.

It’s not until Dean’s got his right hand tied securely to the chair’s arm, rope wound all the way from his wrist up to his elbow, that Benny starts to panic, kicking out, but he’s stuck back on his  _ don’t hurt Dean  _ bullshit, like the coward he is, so it’s not particularly effective. 

“If you keep making this difficult,” Dean gets out through gritted teeth as he wrestles against Benny, pinning one of Benny’s thighs with his knee, “Then I will knock you the fuck out again.”

Benny doesn’t listen, just keeps flailing like a fish out of water, but eventually - and because he’s willing to cross lines that his ex isn’t - Dean finally succeeds in securing all four of his limbs to the arms and legs of the chair.

He takes a moment to admire his handiwork.

It’s a beautiful thing and Dean’s experiencing some serious deja vu, what with the way Benny’s tied to a dining chair in a gated community house, bruised and bloodied and breathing heavily.

But hey, the classics are classics for a reason, folks.

“Questions? Comments?” Dean pants, resting his weight on the dining table, his legs stretched out in the space between Benny’s. In lieu of a vocalized answer, Benny just glares daggers at him and Dean grins in response. “Bet you’re regretting not waiting around to see if your boss killed me earlier, huh?”

“No,” Benny mutters petulantly, all toddler on a time-out, “I never wanted you dead, Dean.”

_ And you definitely didn’t wanna see the consequences of your actions, eh Benny? _

Dean leans forward into his ex’s personal space, looks him right in the eye, “Nah, you just wanted everyone _ I care about _ to die, right? I mean, what the fuck did you think would happen, huh? That me and Nick would have a nice talk and then he’d let Sammy and Mrs. C go? That he wouldn’t try and rape me again? That we wouldn’t all end up with bullets in our fucking brains? I know you’re fucked in the head, Benny, but you cannot be this delusional!”

“What?” Benny’s blue eyes are wet and round when he stares up at Dean. “He did what?”

For fuck’s sake. Of course Benny gets stuck on that. Of course he does.

“You heard,” Dean says, leaning back, crossing his arms defensively over his chest. “Right before he went on the run, your boss tried to rape me on a dirty warehouse floor.”

Benny’s distraught, like it happened to him or some shit, like he’s the one who still feels the phantom weight of that prick on him all the damn time, “I had no idea.”

It’s not like it makes a difference either way. Benny knew that Nick wanted to destroy Dean and Cas at all costs; he fucking  _ helped _ him. He’s not allowed to get all bent out of shape just ‘cause his old boss sexually assaulted the object of his creepy affections. Like, what did he think was gonna happen, really?

Benny shakes his head, blows out a breath, “How the hell did we get here, cher?”

Dean thinks the answer to that one is mostly self-explanatory, “Well, you lied about pretty much everything, and as for me? Let’s just say that you’re not the only one who can fool trusting security officers, Benny.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Dean knows.

Enough talking. Dean wants to get the show on the road, so he pushes away from the table with his hips and turns his back on Benny, starts rooting through his bag of tricks.

“Jesus, Dean. What the fuck are you doin’?”

After all the shit Benny’s done, he  _ cannot _ still be this naive.

“Proving a point.” And because this was most likely Cas’ plan all along, he adds, “Probably having a point proven at my expense too.”

He’s  _ mostly  _ come to terms with Cas always being right. As goddamn annoying as it is. Though, Dean still has his couple of victories against all of Cas’ - his winning of their bet, and the drugs in the cars thing - so it  _ can _ be done if Dean puts his mind to it.

_ That’s the point, dumbass. _

Perhaps his wins are evidence of Cas being right once again; proof that Cas’ unwavering faith in him is justified. That Dean really does have the capacity to make the world his, he just has to actually  _ try _ .

Goddammit, Cas. 

It’s a lightbulb moment for Dean and the fucker who caused it ain’t even here to bear witness.

Dean spent the entirety of his twenties feeling suffocated by all that he wasn’t -  _ isn’t _ \- feeling bitter and confused about his inability to fit in, to even make stilted conversation about petunias and fucking cupcakes. Turns out that he was just living the wrong life.

Benny represents that wrong life. Represents Dean’s last-ditch effort at normality. It only seems fitting that it ends here tonight then, really. As he and Cas start their new lives together proper.

It’s actually kinda poetic. 

Unaware of Dean’s little epiphany, Benny spits out, "This is all his fault."

Benny’s not entirely wrong. It  _ is _ Cas’ fault for showing Dean that he didn’t have to please anybody but himself.

But that’s not what Benny means, is it?

"No, Benny. It's yours."

Finding the first weapon in their ten-course torture menu, Dean lays the knife on the table next to the duffel. He turns back to Benny, begins rolling his shirt sleeves up, folding them into the crooks of his elbows. “See, Benny, you’re what is known as a ‘repeat offender’.”

Benny eyes him, wary of where Dean is gonna take this. 

_ Good. _

“What I mean by that is,  _ you never fucking learn _ . And you know what? That’s partly on me.” He taps his own chest, all faux-sincerity, “Because I was teaching you the wrong way. I don’t know how much you remember from Ben’s parent-teacher meetings, but I’ll break it down for you quickly. There are four main types of learning methods. Everybody is different.” Dean holds up his hand, counts off as he speaks, “So first, there’s the visual method - those who learn by seeing something done. Now, we know you don’t learn like that, ‘cause if you did, then watching Cas smash the shit outta your car woulda done it. The second method is auditory - those who learn by listening, yeah? Again, not your style, ‘cause me telling you to fuck off woulda sunk in. Thirdly, there’s the reading/writing method. Now, admittedly, I haven’t had you write lines,  _ ‘I shall not be a lying, sneaky piece of shit’ _ , but you’ve definitely read enough about mine and Cas’ exploits in the papers to learn that you really shouldn’t have fucked with us.” He wiggles his fingers. “That leaves the fourth one. My personal style and although we’ve tried kinesthetic learning with you before - Cas shooting you, beating the shit out of you several times, breaking your fingers - I feel like it’s the one most likely to get results, y’know? Maybe we just weren’t doing the whole ‘learning by doing’ - or in this case,  _ receiving _ \- thing right. We obviously haven’t been successful in impressing the importance of you learning who I really am for your own health and safety.”

Dean picks up the knife, makes a show of it, so Benny can appreciate just how badly he’s fucked up and how badly  _ Dean doesn’t care. _

“Like I said, that’s on me. So now, I get to spend some time making sure that you really get it. ‘Cause that’s what a good teacher does, right? And I  _ really _ want you to finally learn, Benny. Sound good?”

Benny opens his mouth to answer like this is audience participation hour or some shit and Dean cuts him off with a cruel laugh, “First lesson? I don’t actually care.”

He brushes his thumb over the blade, testing the sharpness, even though he already knows, and he revels in the way Benny’s eyes widen, just a fraction. “Y’know, for how good I am with a gun - and I am pretty fucking good - I’ve always found them kinda impersonal.” He situates himself on top of Benny, straddling Benny’s spread knees, his legs on either side of his ex’s, free hand gripping the nape of Benny’s neck, holding him where he wants him. “I kinda like stuff that forces you to get up close and personal with people.”

At this close range, he can see the way Benny swallows, and so he traces his ex’s adam’s apple with the tip of the blade, “So, I think the best place to start is to test your current level of understanding.” Dean sticks his bottom lip out in a pout, “Do you still think that I’m some kind of waif who needs protection from the Big Bad Gangster?” 

Benny’s gaze darts away and Dean shifts his weight in Benny’s lap, altering his position slightly. With the knife in his hand, Dean grips Benny’s face, blade precariously close to his ex’s eye as he forces Benny to look at him. “Answer me.”

Benny stares up at him, eyes wet and pleading and Dean feels a crackle of power zip through him, pinging against every sweet spot in his body.

Fuck. Yes.

“No,” Benny says eventually, thoroughly miserable, and then ‘cause he’s always been a fucking idiot, adds, “But I do think that he made you this way.”

_ Wow _ .

“Ooops,” Dean tells him with a nasty smile that’s all teeth. “Wrong answer.” He presses the blade against the thin skin of Benny’s throat, watching as crimson spills over silver. Then, lightning-fast, he pulls the knife away and jams it through the back of Benny’s right hand, pinning his palm to the chair’s armrest.

Benny screams and Dean grins in his face, soaking up every micro-expression of pain. 

_ What’s hurting you more, Benny? The physical pain or the knowledge that you deserve this? _

After a long few moments, once Benny’s calmed down, Dean slaps him none-to-gently on the cheek and climbs off, “I hope you’re making mental notes of all this, ‘cause there will be a pop quiz at the end.”

His back to Benny, Dean rifles through the duffel again searching for the next thing he’s gonna use on his ex. _ Aha! _ He drags out a claw hammer. One of Cas’ favorites.

“Next question,” Dean faces Benny, “In the insightful and eloquent prose of the poet, Rihanna:  _ bitch better have my money _ .” Dean takes a careful step toward his ex, wielding the hammer, “Do you have my money,  _ bitch _ ?”

“What?” Benny asks, panting heavily through the pain, “What money?”

_ What fucking money? _

Dean’s tempted to lodge the hammer in Benny’s brain on principle alone.

“Are you shitting me?” Dean says instead, “All the fucking money you owe me, the money you  _ stole _ from me, the money you’ve cost me, you dick!”

Benny scoffs, which is a bold move considering he’s sitting there with a knife through his fucking hand, “Like you need that money, your new husband is loaded.”

_ Eh, he’s got a point. _

“True, but it’s the principle of the thing, y’see, Benny,” Dean drops down on his haunches in front of him. “Give someone an inch and they’ll take a mile?” He smiles sardonically, “Pretty sure you’ve crossed state lines with all the miles you’ve taken.”

Benny’s eyes dart from the hammer to Dean and back again. “Cher, please--” 

“That didn’t even work when I gave a shit whether you lived or died, what makes you think it’s gonna even  _ touch _ me now?”

Something must get through, because thoroughly resigned, Benny says, “How much?” 

“Wellllll, working off my husband’s math?” Dean tries to think back to Cas’ bullshit two million dollars interest rate-slash-multiplier, “We’ll need to call it a cool ten million.”

Benny’s eyes damn near fall out of his head and Dean would laugh, but it’s giving him ideas instead.

_ Could be fun. _

“I don’t have that kind of money, Dean.”

Dean’s smile is serrated when he says, “I know. That’s kinda the point.”

  
  


***

  
  


Turns out, that with a little bit of gentle persuasion - in the form of broken kneecaps from the hammer and the threat of second-degree burns - Benny  _ does _ have that kind of money. 

As with a lot of things tonight, Dean’s beginning to understand another one of Cas’ weird obsessions. This time, fire. He’s watching Benny’s skin start to bubble as he keeps the flame focused on the same patch of skin and it’s kind of fascinating. It’s only at the stage where it’ll blister, but it’s pretty enthralling all the same. 

Benny is Dean’s very own psychotic science experiment. If only he had time to cut him open and play with the squishy bits.

Too psychotic? Too psychotic.

Still, the urge to make Benny hurt for everything - starting with the cheating and finishing with him running away from his decisions earlier this afternoon - is only getting stronger with each cry of pain that Dean coaxes from him.

“Fine, fuck!” Benny yelps, trying in vain to pull his arm - the one without the blade in his hand; Dean’s not a _ total _ monster - away. “There’s money upstairs. In the bedroom closet. About fifty million.”

_ Ex-fucking-cuse me? _

Dean snaps the zippo shut. “What? Where the fuck did you get that money from? Don’t tell me you finally won on the fucking tables, ‘cause we’d know about that shit.”

Perks of owning Crowley’s gambling racket, even if they’ve been hands-off in recent months. 

“It’s Nick’s,” Benny explains, and  _ ohhhh, interesting _ . 

Even fucking better.

There ain’t a dead man in the world that needs fifty million dollars. Two living, recently married, about-to-go-on-their-honeymoon, and owners of a castle -  _ a fucking castle  _ \- men, however, could certainly make use of it.

Dean points a warning finger at his ex, “If you’re lying to me--”

“--I’m not, I promise, cher, I’m not!”

Dean considers him in all his pathetic glory. He pats him on the head, “I know, I know.” 

Double-checking that the ropes are secure (it wouldn’t do to have a Dahmer incident where he gets away, even with the broken kneecaps), Dean flashes his ex a toothy smirk, before taking the stairs two at a time.

Inside the bedroom - which he’s half expecting to be (and is only partially disappointed to not find) covered in pictures of him - he steps over to the walk-in closet, yanks open the door. Down near the shoe rack and not hidden well at all, are about ten duffel bags haphazardly stacked on top of one another. There’s a couple of large upright suitcases too. 

He hauls one of the bags out of the closet, yanks the zipper open.

_ Holy shit.  _

This might actually be the first time in his life that Benny’s actually told the truth. 

Inspecting the money, Dean checks the serial numbers, the material, the definition of the scrollwork, everything. All the tell-tale signs he’s learned from Cas to denote counterfeit cash.

It’s genuine. 

_ Well, what a fucking turn up for the books. _

Benny probably thinks that it’s gonna save him. It’s not.

He replaces the money and re-zips the duffel. He decides to leave it with the rest of them for now - he can figure out what to do with it later - and returns downstairs to the dining room, where Benny is red-faced and has been very obviously trying to escape.

“Steve McQueen you ain’t, huh?” Dean asks in faux-sympathy, leaning on the door frame, arms folded. “That’s okay, I’ve gotten pretty good at tying people up. You should see some of the shit I’ve done to Cas.”

_ That _ gets Benny's attention. “What?”

“Oh, yeah,” Dean says, moving into the dining room, “I mean, it’s probably a little too personal and Cas would be  _ pissed _ if I told you, but you’re gonna be dead soon,” He shrugs, “so what the fuck does it matter?”

Despite the words coming out of his mouth, Dean isn’t actually gonna tell Benny anything about Cas squirming on his tongue like a slut. Nah, it’s much more fun - and more likely to instill jealousy - if Dean talks at length about Cas railing him. 

Psychological torture instead of physical.

Dean’s open to all kinds. Whatever hurts.

There’s no answer forthcoming from Benny, just pained silence, so Dean carries on, “Cas is a kinky fucker. I mean, the shit we’ve done together - like the one time he fucked me full in a city hall bathroom, and then we went and spoke to the DA, the mayor, and a few other bigwigs. Orrrrr that time that he blew me at a neighborhood watch meeting? Mm, that was a good one.”

Benny’s staring like he can’t believe his ears. Like this is a totally different Dean to the one he was married to, and if that’s what it takes for the fucking penny to finally drop - despite the torture - then Dean’s all for it.

“Oh, oh, oh. And then when we were in Vegas? He fucked me up against the floor-to-ceiling window in our hotel suite, staring down at the strip. God, that was amazing. Happy fucking birthday to me, am I right?”

“Enough,” Benny says, jaw tight. “I get the picture.”

“Do you though? ‘Cause I have _ literal _ pictures. Oooh, speaking of pictures - and birthdays - Remember that time you and I went out for my birthday and Cas fucked me in the bathroom? Back when you naively thought the sight of you didn’t fucking repulse me.” Dean digs his cell out of his pocket. It’s mostly for show; he doesn’t have that picture himself, ‘cause eww, how fucking weird and narcissistic would that be? But he knows for a fact that Cas still has it on his phone like the pervert that he is. “Christ I was a fucking mess after that and then he took a picture of his come lea--”

“--Stop!” Benny explodes, finally, fucking finally,  _ and there it is _ . “Just fuckin’ stop, alright!”

Dean’s certainly on board with Cas’ smugocity™ now. ‘Cause goddamn, this feels  _ good _ .

“Do you  _ really _ not wanna hear any more?” Dean asks, abandoning his cell on the table in favor of searching through the weapons duffel for the screwdriver he knows is in there, “‘Cause you know, I’d be happy to arrange that for you.”

When Benny doesn’t say anything, Dean goes in for the metaphorical kill, “Does it bother you, Benny? That me and Ben were the only good things in your life and you threw us away? That why you’re living in a home just like the one we had, why you’re so fucking  _ obsessed _ with me?”

It would be flattering if it wasn’t so disgustingly creepy.

_ Aha! _

Twirling the found screwdriver in his fingers, Dean says, “What is it that bothers you the most? That you fucked up and have nobody to blame but yourself? That you misjudged how much of your bullshit I would put up with? Or is that Cas saw me for who I am - that he knew who I was supposed to be - which wasn’t some fucking cliched middle-class housewife type? That he fucking  _ saw _ me, Benny, when nobody else did? Not even you - _ especially  _ not you?”

“Is that what you think happened?” Benny laughs and it’s cruel, a taunt, and  _ yesssss _ , this is  _ exactly _ the fucker Dean’s been wanting to see for fucking months now. The shitty, nasty side of his ex, the side that’s always been there, hidden beneath a facade of genial charm. “You think that he wanted you for you?”

It’s the same thing that Bobby and Sam have said as well - albeit slightly less shittily - but it still stings. Just a little. 

“And my perky nipples of course,” Dean interposes, drawing closer with the screwdriver, angled in his palm like the knife through Benny’s. 

“Dean, he just wants to use you. And then when you disobey him one day, he’ll toss you out like fuckin’ garbage. You think he gives a shit about you Dean? Why? Why would he care about you when he’s most likely got a queue of idiots that he’s fuckin’ and preparin’ for your role--”

And that’s when Dean jams the screwdriver’s blade and part of the shank into Benny’s ear, hard and deep enough to rupture the eardrum. Benny screams again and, rage barely contained, on the cusp of completely losing his shit, Dean tells him through a sadistic smile, “That’s my fucking husband, you prick. Show some goddamn respect or I’ll shove this screwdriver right through and out the other side.”

Dean can barely think straight through the white-hot fucking rage. How dare Benny even _ think  _ that, let alone say it? Dean’s known for a while that the bastard is poison, but this absolutely confirms it. He starts pacing, trying to calm himself down, otherwise this is gonna be over before it’s even really started. 

“What are you doin’?” Benny asks after a fraught couple of minutes, during which Dean actually considers attempting to enucleate his ex with a screwdriver, just to see if he can. Wincing at the throbbing pain in his ear, squinting up at Dean, Benny adds, “What are you actually achievin’ through this?”

_ That’s pretty self-explanatory. _

“I’m achieving you suffering and me getting some fucking catharsis for all the shit you put me through, you asshole.” Dean tells him, his face inches from Benny’s, “You have been nothing but a thorn in my side for two years now. And then this shit with Nick? You might’ve gotten away with it if it weren’t for that pesky mafioso.”

He leans away, goes back to his bag of weapons, and tosses the screwdriver carelessly onto the table, searching for the next tool to use.

“He has you all twisted ‘round,” Benny mutters, like it’s a fucking mantra he’s been telling himself to explain away Dean’s shift from struggling-to-fit-in middle-class dad and mechanic, to in-his-goddamn-element middle-class dad and (occasional) mechanic. “I feel like I don’t even know you.”

And ain’t that the thing.

Finding what he’s looking for, Dean pulls another one of Cas’ personal favorites out of the duffel.

“Pretty sure you never did, Benny,” Dean says to his ex, but his attention is all on the nasty looking, curved into a reverse ‘s’, serrated blade. It’s not the longest knife - folding or otherwise - but it is an absolute  _ bastard _ . “In fact, that’s probably the entire point. Now. What should I remove with this?”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, you’re insane.”

Dean tsks, “Yeah. Probably. But I’m having the time of my life.” He rounds the table and pins Benny’s semi-free hand down to the chair arm, “And anyways, didn’t you promise to love me in sickness and health? What happened to that, man? If I’m insane, you gotta still love me, Benny-boy.”

Securing his hand, Dean begins sawing into Benny’s ring finger. It’s just unfortunate (for Benny) that once he’s about halfway down, what with the way the blade curls around, it starts biting into Benny’s pinky too. 

Benny’s not being quiet about it. 

In fact, all the screaming is starting to really piss Dean off.

Just take it like a fucking man, yanno? Especially since Benny was so quick to tie up an older (infinitely more badass) woman and a puppy in human form.

What kind of belly-to-the-ground asshole does something like that and then can’t take a little bit of amputation? It’s only a couple of fingers for Christ’s sake. 

Even Crowley took his torture with more dignity.

Fingers no longer attached to Benny’s hand, blood pouring onto the carpet, Dean makes an executive decision to shut his ex up. He shoves the fingers into Benny’s whimpering mouth, laughing when Benny spits them out, dry heaving straight afterward. 

“Christ,” Dean mutters, half-amused, half-disgusted, “You really are weak as fuck, aren’t you?”

Before Benny can respond - it’s cool, Dean already knows the answer, it’s not exactly Benny’s best-kept secret - Dean hears the rumble of his vibrating phone against the table.

He tosses the bloody knife back into the duffel, wipes his hand off on Benny’s sweat-damp shirt and picks up his cell.

It’s Cas.

“Hey, babe,” He answers, slightly breathless and excited, “What’s up?”

No preamble, just straight down to it, Cas tells him, “Our new flight is at 9:25. We’ll need to leave in the next hour or so to make it. Will you be done by then?”

It’s casual, as though Dean’s finishing up in the office or some shit. Filling in the last of his spreadsheets before they go on holiday.

“Why don’t you come over and find out?”

There’s a short pause before Cas says, “Alright. What house number are you?”

Dean tells him and then hangs up. Replacing his phone in his pocket, he tells Benny, “So, we’ve got maybe twenty minutes tops before my husband shows up. Any ideas on what we could we do to fill the time?”

  
  


***

  
  


By the time Cas arrives, Dean has sliced one of Benny’s eyeballs - he saw it in a movie once and wanted to know how realistic the special effects were - Benny’s missing multiple teeth - they’re scattered all around him like a fairy ring - and he’s also unconscious. Could be the blood loss, could be the shock, could be the cowardice. Dean’s taking bets.

Cas looks amazing as always as he steps in through the patio door, casually gorgeous in a black, short-sleeved button-down underneath the leather jacket that he shucks off and drapes over one of the other dining chairs. His dark jeans are super tight and along with the shirt are 100% not comfy plane wear, but Dean’s not complaining, no sirree, not when he’s the lucky idiot who gets to enjoy that ass and trace every line of all the pretty pretty ink on display with his tongue. 

And that’s precisely what he plans to spend the next couple of weeks doing. 

“Hey, Cas,” Dean greets him with a chaste kiss, holding his bloodied hands away from his husband, not wanting to mess up his clothes. 

“Hello, Dean,” Cas murmurs with that dark warmth that makes Dean’s stomach flip and his dick hard. “It looks like you’ve been enjoying yourself.”

“This is familiar, right?” Dean asks with a sly grin.

“Mmmm, “Cas agrees. “Though I do hope for a different outcome this time.”

Benny’s drooling blood and spit down his chin and shirt, his damaged eye is swollen shut, and there’s no way that even if he did get loose, he’d be able to go far on those broken knees. He’s barely stopped bleeding from his pulpy finger stumps and his hearing is permanently fucked, so Dean just turns back to Cas, eyebrows raised.

“You think this isn’t already a different outcome?”

“Mmmm,” Cas says again, rounding the table, eyes landing on Benny’s amputated digits amongst the teeth and blood-spattered carpet, “What did you do with his fingers?”   


“Tried to make him eat them. Guess he wasn’t hungry.”

Cas gestures for Dean to come to him, and well, Dean’s not gonna hold out on him, ‘cause who the fuck would? “You’re quite the sadist,” Cas tells him as he drags Dean in the rest of the way by his belt loops, bodies fitting together, “I knew there was a reason why I loved you.”

Dean’s heart flutters like he’s got a crush. 

_ You kinda do.  _

“Besides all the other reasons?” Dean asks, relaxing into the embrace, despite the fact that he’s holding his arms behind Cas’ back like a doctor prepping for surgery, still conscious that they’re about to get on a plane soon, and Cas better have brought him a change of clothes other than the ones in his suitcase. “Like the fact that I’m the only one who puts up with you and your dramatics.”

Cas doesn’t say anything, just lets his hands on Dean’s belt slide around to curve over his ass. 

“That too,” Dean grins, leaning in for a kiss. 

Cas obliges, slotting their hips together and Dean can feel the hard length of his husband’s dick against his thigh. 

“Oh really?” Dean asks, tilting his head, rolling his hips in a tease, “It’s like that, is it?”

“It’s  _ always _ like that,” Cas tells him, voice low with a rough edge. He cups Dean’s jaw, dragging his thumb across the swell of Dean’s bottom lip. “Believe me, I really wish we could, but we need to leave soon, and you’ve yet to actually kill him. Plus, we will need to stage the scene.”

“Fuck,” Dean whines, frustrated, “If I kill him now and just set the place alight, do we not have time for me to at least blow you?”

Cas’ smile is wry, “We still need to stage it, fire cannot be relied upon.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that,” Dean grouses, “He never shows when it’s his turn to have the kids for the weekend. Fiiiiiiine. But we’re having sex on the plane. Or in the car on the way to the airport.”

Amused, Cas squeezes Dean’s ass and steps away, sweeping his arm out, all ‘the floor is yours’ and Dean doesn’t quite curtsey, but it’s a near thing.

Dean slaps Benny back into consciousness, “Hey, Benny.” 

Benny grunts, and then there’s more blood and drool, “Wuh?”

_ Gross. _

“Look who’s here,” Dean moves aside so his ex can see his husband in all his menacing glory. “It’s Cas.”

“Just fucking kill me already,” Benny mumbles through his spit lip and missing teeth.

“Y’know, it’s funny you should say that,” Dean says watching as Cas reaches into his jacket and pulls a gun out, ‘“Cause that’s coming pretty soon. But first, I thought you and Cas might have a few things to discuss whilst I trash the place.” He claps Benny on the shoulder, “Maybe you could tell him what you told me before. About Cas just using me? Clear the air and all that.”

  
  


***

  
  


Setting the scene of a home invasion is kinda fun. Dean gets to break shit, smash mirrors, upturn tables, stab through pillows, and spread polyester and feathers everywhere like he’s a chick at a sleepover. 

(Lisa broke his heart years ago by telling him that girls at sleepovers don’t actually spend their time rolling around in their underwear and daintily hitting each other with feather pillows. Dean has since chosen not to believe her).

Overall, today has actually been a good day, despite the residual ache in his jaw and the fact that he and Cas should be on a beach somewhere blowing each other to the backdrop of a beautiful sunset. Or holed up in a cabin somewhere in the snowy mountains, drinking hot chocolate with little marshmallows and keeping each other warm. 

Dean’s not picky. 

The only problem is how they’re gonna get the money out of here. For all his (not actual) jokes about them having sex in the car on the way to the airport, Dean doesn’t know how they’re getting there. How Cas got  _ here _ . If Cas did use a driver, then one look outside tells Dean that he’s not parked outside the house. Waiting outside the gate perhaps? Dean’s got the Beemer parked a few doors down outside a house up for sale, so getting the money that far hopefully won’t be super difficult, but it’s not like they can just park up at the airport and leave for two weeks with fifty million dollars on the back seat. 

Eh. Cas will have a plan, he always does. So all Dean needs to worry about for the moment is getting the cash to the car without alerting any curtain twitchers.

The last thing they need is them coming back from Barbados or wherever and getting arrested for arson and murder. 

(They’ll be able to shake the charges, of course, but it’ll be a downer, for sure).

Done with his destruction in the bedrooms and bathroom, Dean hoists one of the bags of money over his shoulder and jogs back downstairs to find out Cas’ thoughts, and also to see how he and Benny are getting on.

Like a house on fucking fire, is the answer. 

Cas is knelt down behind Benny, sawing into - what looks like from this angle - his Achilles tendon with a folding saw. Cas’ inked muscles are bunching deliciously beneath the short sleeves of his shirt with every back and forth of the saw’s sharp teeth across sinew.

“Ouch,” Dean comments, dropping the bag to the floor. “Having fun?”

“Something like that,” Cas mutters wryly, “Unfortunately, he passed out partway through me cutting the first one.”

“Yeah. He’s pretty much the most feeble person ever.”

Finished severing the tendon and leaving the saw on the carpet, Cas pushes to his feet, graceful as always, and there’s a lopsided smirk curving his plush mouth. “In fairness, you have been torturing him for a couple of hours, and you’ve not exactly taken it easy on him.”

“‘In fairness’?” Dean repeats incredulously, “The fuck would you wanna be fair to him for?”

Cas shoots Dean an unimpressed look, wiping his hands off on an already bloodied dishcloth that Dean wishes he’d had the wherewithal to grab for himself earlier. Cas leans his weight on the edge of the dining table, knees bent, tight jeans pulled taut over his thick thighs and Dean loses his train of thought for a prolonged moment, “I was just pointing out that expecting stamina from someone who you’ve been this …  _ enthusiastic _ with, is a tad unrealistic.”

“I thought you liked my enthusiasm?” Dean says, sidling up to his husband, stepping into the open v of his legs, draping his arms around Cas’ broad shoulders.

Cas drops the cloth next to his thigh and places his hands on Dean’s hips. Head tilted to look up at him, blue eyes glittering in the artificial light, Cas says, “You  _ know _ how much I appreciate your enthusiasm.”

Dean leans down and gently butts his forehead against Cas’, “Gonna be  _ real _ enthusiastic later.”

Cas makes an amused sound in the back of his throat, and Dean closes the tiny distance between their mouths and captures Cas’ lips in a gentle kiss. It’s long and slow, on the verge of getting heated when Cas breaks it off.

His lips brush against Dean’s mouth as he speaks, “How do you want to do this?” And it makes Dean shiver with want.

_ Focus. _

Murder-kill-death now, fuck-suck-orgasm later.

Dean considers Cas’ question. He’s had his fun, but that doesn’t mean he wants to finish this with something as simple and easy as a bullet.

Nah, Dean wants something that Benny is gonna feel, even in his messed-up state. 

“I’ve always wanted to know how it’d feel to behead someone, I guess.”

Cas kisses him again, one of his palms rucking Dean’s shirt up as he caresses Dean’s body, and this is completely un-fucking-fair, so Dean gets a hand in Cas’ hair, the other on his bicep.

If they’re wanting to catch their next flight, this probably isn’t the best idea.

Like fuck Dean’s gonna say anything though. Not when the odds of getting laid are strongly in his favor. 

They kiss again and Dean pushes forward into Cas’ space, desperate and needy and not giving a single solitary fuck about anything other than the way Cas’ hands feel on him, the almost reverent way Cas kisses him, slick, wet pressure of their mouths together.

_ Goddamn.  _

Dean will never get enough of this.

Frustratingly, Cas pulls back again, mouth ghosting over Dean’s when he says, “Now’s an opportune time to find out. It’s up to you how you want to do this, but let me just say that a swift decapitation requires a powerful, accurate action, and a sharp, heavy blade.”

Dean slants a crooked smile at his husband, “You saying that you think I should be inaccurate with a blunt, light blade?” 

Cas looks back at him with a heated sort of focus, “That would be the most painful.”

“You sick fuck.”

“Mmhmm,” Cas agrees, “Speaking of--”

Unfortunately, whatever kinky shit Cas was gonna say gets cut off by a death-rattle type cough coming from Benny as he hacks his way back into consciousness. One bloodshot eye opens and fixes itself on a spot somewhere on Dean’s torso.

_ The fuck? _

Dean looks down. Cas’ wandering hand has pushed his shirt up far enough that his tattoo is visible.

Oh.  _ Oh _ .

Before Dean has the opportunity to say anything, Cas beats him to the metaphorical punch, asking (but not really) Benny, “It’s beautiful isn’t it?”

Dean shivers as Cas strokes his thumb over the long since healed ink.

Benny doesn’t say anything and Dean doesn’t take his eyes off Cas, even as Cas is keenly studying Benny for his reaction, “It’s my name. It suits him, don’t you think?”

_ Possessive bastard.  _

Dean does look at Benny then and watches as Benny tries to swallow. He makes a weird sort of clicking gurgle, but still doesn’t speak. Like he  _ can’t. _

Oh, well that explains a lot.

Dean nudges Cas with a gentle knee to the inside of his thigh to get his attention, “You cut out his tongue?”

“He wouldn’t shut up. I warned him.”

A perfectly reasonable response. 

“I’ll remember that next time you say I’m talking too much.”

“God,” Cas mutters, letting Dean’s shirt drop back down, “I wish you would.”

Moment well and truly over, Dean steps away out of his husband’s personal space, gives him the finger. “As if you don’t enjoy my tongue.” To emphasize his point he sticks it out and just as he’s about to perform a semi-obscene reenactment of their wedding night with his fingers curled into his palm, Cas stops him.

“What’s in the bag?”

_ Aha _ . 

“Change of subject duly noted,” Dean says with a grin and then picks the duffel up, dumping it next to the one full of weapons on the table. “Nick might have been on the run, but his money always stayed right here in Lawrence. With Benny.”

Cas’ eyes widen just a fraction; a non-reaction from most, but from him? That’s like screaming for about ten minutes straight. “That’s quite the risk, leaving all his money with a gambling addict.”

“I know, right?” Dean unzips the bag, hands Cas a banded stack of cash, “But, evidently, Benny actually managed to exercise restraint. For once.”

Dean can see Benny’s uneven breaths out the corner of his eye, hear his ragged breaths. 

“How much?” Cas asks, eyes dark and dangerous.

“Probably at least fifty mil all-told,” Dean answers, “Buuuut, in this bag here?” He slaps the top of the canvas, flashes Cas his most charming smile, “Oooh, I’d say about two million dollars.”

Cas catches on instantly. “So this is you paying me back, is it? How very enterprising of you.”

“Yeah,” Dean looks down at the money, “I mean, I figure that I’ve racked up some interest over time but in Vegas you said that I was allowed to pay in other ways, so let’s just assume that’s covered, yeah?” He winks at his husband, “I’m glad it didn’t take the full lifetime we reckoned it would. I mean, can you  _ imagine _ ? Us being shackled together forever, what a mistake that would be, right?”

Mirth in his voice, Cas says, “In the words of our daughter, ‘can’t relate’.”

_ Fuck, _ Dean loves him. 

Dean carries on, trying his hand at being coy, “So now that I am technically free of debt to you and can live my life the way I want, I am now going to go to…” He studies his husband's face carefully, “Cancun?”

Nope, nothing. Not even a blink.

_ Hmmm. _

“Bora Bora?”

Nada.

“Maui?”

Bupkis.

“Reykjavík?”

Castiel turns his attention ceilingward, probably wishing he actually  _ could _ cut Dean’s tongue out. “I don’t care what anyone else says, your subtlety is one of your more endearing qualities.”

_ Asshole. _

“Come onnnnn,” Dean whines like the spoiled brat he completely is, “Telllllll meeeee. Please?” He even pouts and stomps his foot and everything. 

But Cas, the evil evil man he is, stands firm even in the face of Dean’s best teenage whining, "No. But I will tell you that I did briefly consider taking you to my place of birth."

_ Interesting. _

"I'm glad you nixed that idea, Cas, 'cause a tour of a robotics factory ain't exactly my idea of a destination holiday."

Cas slants him a _ look _ , but Dean can see the corner of his mouth twitching as he tries not to show his amusement at Dean’s fucking excellent joke.

“Fine.” Dean snaps eventually, when it becomes apparent that Cas isn’t gonna cave, “Be a dick, don’t tell me. It’s fine. We’d better get this shit done with so we can actually  _ go _ .”

“Alright,” Cas says, smug in his victory, “There’s a machete in there that I used for clearing brush at my old house. It should be nice and dull.”

“Vicious as fuck. I love it.”

  
  
  


***

  
  


It takes Dean a lucky number seven hacks at the bloody pulp of Benny’s neck before he manages to successfully decapitate his ex. 

It’s Mary, Queen of Scots all over again, except the intent to maim was there. 

Still, the deed is done and Benny is in two pieces. Well,  _ four _ if you count the amputated fingers.

Dean’s hands are slick with blood and gore, so he showers and changes into the clothes Cas  _ did  _ bring for him - like the wonderful, amazing, forward-thinking husband he is. 

As he’s toweling off after his super speedy shower, Dean can hear Cas destroying shit downstairs, followed by the soft glug of what Dean presumes is a canister of gasoline. 

Dean bundles his old clothes up with the towel and the bath mat and carries them downstairs. Cas is in the middle of a scene of absolute chaos; bits of broken wood, ripped papers, shattered glass. Benny’s head is in his own lap because Cas truly is a sick fuck. He pauses mid-pour when Dean enters the dining room. “We’ve got five minutes to finish this off, otherwise we’ll have to reschedule yet again. And they already charged us an arm and a leg this time.” He throws the empty can of gas across the table.

“Eh,” Dean shrugs, sweeping a glance over the last of the bags of money in the hallway. The rest are in the trunk of the car and on the back seats. Turns out that the curtain twitchers and neighborhood watch in this community are a little more lax than in Dean’s old place; the only slight hiccup in their super stealthy plan to sneak fifty million dollars out of the house undetected, was when a dog walker asked if they were going anywhere nice on vacation as Dean loaded up the suitcases. Of course, Dean, being an absolute shit, turned to his husband and said, “Yeah, honey.  _ Are _ we going anywhere nice?”

He has a feeling that he’s gonna pay for that one later.

“Ain’t like we can’t afford it,” Dean says. The fifty mil isn’t exactly a fortune compared to all the freakin’ zeroes Dean’s seen on some of Cas’ various offshore accounts statements, but it’ll certainly replace a large chunk of what Nick cost them.

Zippo in hand, Cas flicks a small flare of fire into existence and then casts it on top of Benny’s gasoline-slick body. Dean tosses the clothes and towel in his arms onto the rapidly spreading blaze.

Hauling the weapons duffel over his shoulder, Cas kisses Dean quickly, crushing their mouths together, then says, “I’ll see you in a minute. Don’t wait around to watch the house burn, just leave.”

Dean’s guess about how Cas got here - with a driver that’s waiting outside the community - was a correct one. So, his husband is gonna go back the way he came like the fucking phantom with a knack for sneaking in and out of supposedly secure properties that he is, and Dean’s gonna leave the proper way through the gates, then meet up with him on the outside. 

From there, Cas is gonna transfer the weapons to the Beemer, hand the keys over to the town car driver, and instruct him to drive home, leave and lock it in the garage at their house. They’ll leave the town car in the long-stay parking lot at the airport.

It’s a pretty simple plan with little margin for error, as long as the driver can be trusted. 

And if not, they know where he lives.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean mutters, picking up his own two bags, watching as Cas disappears out the back door.

Dean steps right out the front, a few million dollars in the bags over his shoulders, leaving his ex and the replica of their old house behind to burn. 

  
  


***

  
  


As he drives through the neighborhood, it’s pretty quiet. He spots a pair of joggers in lycra so bright that it would’ve been too much for the eighties, and as he nears the main gates, he notices a couple of neighbors chatting over their mutual fence in the semi-darkness, lit up only by the evenly spaced and well-kept street lights.

This is the life Dean thought he could force himself into wanting. And yeah, there’s something to be said for the appearance of normality, but most of these people are more fucked up than he is, just reluctant to admit it. 

At least what he and Cas do is  _ honest _ , no pretense, no bullshit. 

He pulls up to the gate, hoping that it’s still his new bestie, Kristina, in the security booth. He glances up through the bars and nearly does a double-take when he sees Cas further up the curved slope of the road. He’s leaning against the hood of the town car, legs crossed at the ankles, arms crossed over his broad chest. Even in the darkness, Dean can tell that Cas’ eyes are intent on him, and it makes him shiver all the way to his dick. 

“Hey!” Kristina snags his attention away from Cas. If only momentarily. “How’d it go?”

“Good,” Dean manages, trying not to keep glancing at his husband. Distracting fucker. “All sorted.”

It’s not even a lie. 

“Yeah?” She asks, and Dean hopes that she doesn’t notice he’s wearing different clothes.

Thankfully, she doesn’t. But she  _ does _ notice the two suitcases on the backseat. 

“Wow, it looks like you’d left your whole life there.”

It takes him a confused second to realize that she’s referring to the reason why she’d let him in earlier in the night. To get his stuff. And closure. 

“Yeah,” Dean smiles brightly at her, “Something like that. I got everything I wanted.”

She’s obviously happy about this, like she is glad to have helped in some small way. Which she did and Dean’s grateful. He might have Gabriel drop some money off for her whilst they’re away. 

“I’m really pleased,” She tells him. “And you seem… I dunno.” She waves her hand in a circular motion around his head, “Different.  _ Free  _ \- like a weight has been lifted.”

It’s a pretty good assessment and Dean looks at Cas through the gates. It’s only supposed to be a glance, but as always, his eyes catch and hold on Cas’, the pair of them drawn and bound together by everything that they’ve shared and everything that they are to each other. 

For better or worse. 

“Yeah,” Dean says, not taking his eyes off his husband as the gate separating them opens, “I’m feeling pretty damn good about the future.”


End file.
